


down we go

by nauticalwarrior



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Poverty, Single Parents, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Tucker, tags will be updated as story progresses, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-22 22:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/pseuds/nauticalwarrior
Summary: tucker is a single dad, short on cash and short on luck.washington is at university on a martial arts scholarship and lives with his three cats.and they're falling apart.





	1. 1//september

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the lovely https://obviouslynotthere.tumblr.com/

It’s not particularly easy to raise a kid. It’s even harder when you’re a single parent with no college education, an empty bank account, and a minimum wage (less, technically) job as a waiter at a local diner.

But really, Tucker is handling things just fine. Junior’s always had a roof over his head and at least a few nice toys. He goes to a fairly nice school, as far as public schools go. And he’s never gone hungry. Things may be kind of tough, but Tucker’s always made sure to put food on the table and keep Junior as unaware of their quickly dwindling savings as possible.

Or rather, their _dwindled_ savings, Tucker thinks as he stares blankly at the cracked laptop screen and the incredibly large sum of 28 cents Tucker and Junior now have left to their name. This month’s rent hasn’t just destroyed his bank account; it's put on brass knuckles and taken its sweet time beating Tucker’s finances to a bloody pulp. At least they can _afford_ rent this month. Tucker sighs and leans back in his chair, hands fisting in his dreads.

“Fuck.” There really isn’t much Tucker can do about this. His boss had already explicitly told Tucker that no, he could _not_ work more than 48 hours a week. Apparently, he’s already “pushing it” by working that many. He's applied for another job, which should help if he gets it, but it's not much better than his current one.

Tucker doesn’t even have to do the math to know that they’re not going to make rent next month. Hell, they’ll be lucky to be able to get groceries this week.

Oh, right. Food. Tucker stands up wearily, shutting the already beaten up laptop as gently as he can in his frustration. If he breaks it, he’ll have to walk two miles to the library every time he needs to do something he can’t on his phone. Thank goodness that the two devices had held on as long as they did.

Tucker opens the fridge and sighs in relief when he spots the near-full gallon of milk and the containers of leftover food. He opens what he thinks is the oldest and sniffs the mashed potatoes inside before deeming them edible.

“Hey, Junior! Dinner!” Tucker smiles when he hears the muffled response from the bedroom. His son never fails to cheer him up, even on his hardest days.

“What is it, Dad?” Junior dashes over to him and peers up at the plastic container in Tucker’s hands.

“Leftover potatoes. I think we’ve got some tuna in the cabinet too. How’s that sound?” Tucker grins at Junior, hoping that his son won’t complain. Memories of cheez-its and delivery pizza echo in the back of Tucker’s mind, reminding him of what he had growing up that Junior never will.

“Is it the kind with the spicy stuff?” Junior tugs on Tucker’s shorts and leans on him.

“Yup.” Tucker carefully takes a step to the left and open the cabinet with his free hand, grabbing the spicy tuna down from the middle shelf.

“Yes! Tuna and taters!” Junior bounces on his feet excitedly. “Can I use the microwave? Please? I’ll press the buttons you tell me to and I won’t put the fork in this time!”

Tucker chuckles and sets the potatoes down on the countertop. “Sure thing buddy. Let me just open the tuna and put it on top first, okay? You can’t microwave the can it’s in either.” He tugs on the pull tab, carefully peeling back the thin metal to reveal the fish underneath. Thank goodness Junior isn’t picky; Tucker never would have eaten this when he was Junior’s age.

“Why not? Cause it’s metal?” Junior watches curiously as Tucker dumps the tuna onto the potatoes unceremoniously and loosely sets the lid on top before putting the whole thing in the microwave.

“Yeah, it’ll spark in the microwave like the fork would. Here, put in a minute and a half.” Tucker scoots to the side to left Junior press the buttons. His arm barely reaches the keypad, but he enters in 1:50 just fine.

“Like that?” Junior looks at Tucker, his finger hovering over the start button.

“How many seconds are in a minute?” Tucker leans against the counter and smiles at Junior.

“100?” Junior looks uncertain, his little brow furrowing as he glances at the microwave.

“60, remember? Time is funny like that.” Tucker watches as Junior hits the clear button and starts the microwave with one minute and thirty seconds, a swell of pride growing in Tucker’s chest. Cheez-its and pizza or not, Junior certainly is smarter than Tucker had been at his age, and Tucker thinks (hopes) that at least some of that was due to how Tucker has raised him and not just luck.

“Daddy?” Junior looks up at Tucker as the microwave hums gently.

“What's up, J?”

“Are you having tuna-taters too?” Junior just seems curious, and Tucker doesn't really know the answer anyway, so he takes a second to think. At first, his mind goes to the the leftover spaghetti from yesterday night. And then it goes to the 28 cents in his bank account.

“I'm going to grab something later I think. Daddy's gotta do some more boring adult stuff first.” Tucker ruffles Junior's hair and pulls open the microwave just as it starts to beep. Tucker takes it out, careful not to hold the hot part of the container. He sets it down and pulls a clean plate off of the drying rack next to the sink. “Hey, J, can you get yourself a fork?”

“Yeah!” Junior hops over to the other side of the small kitchenette and opens one of the drawers, standing on the tips of his toes to see inside. “Can I use the batman spoon instead? Please?”

Tucker laughs. “Sure thing.” He takes the spoon from Junior and spoons the food onto the plate, trying his best to not totally mix the tuna and potatoes together. He probably should have microwaved them separately. Tucker walks over to the table and sets the plate down on Junior’s placemat.

“Thank you!” Junior sticks his spoon right into the food and starts mixing it together delightedly, a happy smile on his face. Tucker can't help but grin himself.

“You're welcome, buddy.”

* * *

“How did the interview go?” Church sips at his energy drink, looking at Tucker with one eyebrow raised slightly.

Tucker shrugs. “I mean, they want me to come in tomorrow morning so I'm assuming it went well? The guy who I talked to seemed kind of annoyed though.”

“Hey, but you got the job!” Church leans over the table to give Tucker a playful punch on the shoulder. “What are your hours like?”

Tucker sighs. “Well, my new boss said six until noon, seven days a week. I can talk to Cath about starting later at the diner.”

“Are you kidding?” Church laughs. “She'll be thrilled. No more paying you overtime.”

“Yeah, actually I was gonna try and get 42 hours a week out of her.”

Church groans. “Dude, give it a rest. I _know_ you don't want to work that much.

Tucker sighs and shakes his head. “Believe me, if I had any other option, I would.”

Church leans back in his chair and stretches. “So I've got Junior from six until six on the weekends then?” His back pops. “You know I don't mind, even if he is a little rascal.”

Tucker shakes his head and smiles. “He only acts up if you give him candy or caffeine, dude. And yeah, I'd really appreciate that. I don't know what we'd do without you and Caboose.”

“What?! Caboose doesn't do shit! It's like I'm babysitting two kids, except Caboose is also stupid!” Church waves his hands about as he talks. “And the size of an adult! And a fucking tank! Did I tell you about how he picked up the couch the other day and tried to put it on top of the coffee table?! I was so fucking pissed, I just got that thing!”

Tucker laughs. “That's Caboose for you.”

“Hey Dad!” Tucker turns to see Junior standing in the doorway to Caboose’s bedroom, a piece of paper in his hands.

“What's up?” Tucker adjusts himself so he's facing his son and not Church.

“Check out what me and Caboose made! I did the tree and he did the house.” Junior holds up a piece of paper with a tree poorly drawn in green crayon and a jumble of blue and orange lines that Tucker assumes is Caboose's attempt at a house.

“Nice! You about ready to head home?” Tucker wouldn't mind staying a bit longer normally, but he's tired. He's been on his feet all day serving rude customers, and since the diner was packed and short staffed, he hadn't gotten his normal break.

Junior frowns. “But we were gonna play with Caboose's robots!”

Tucker stands up and sighs. “You're going to be here tomorrow and this weekend, J. I'm sure you can play with his robots then.” He grabs his wallet from the table and shoves it deep in his uniform pocket. “And we can stay if you really want to, but if we go home now, I'll make noodles for dinner.”

Junior thinks for a moment. “What's for dinner if we stay?”

Tucker grins. “Beans.”

Junior groans. “Ew!! We can leave!” He reaches up and puts the drawing on the table. “You can have this, Church. Caboose said it was for you because you're his best friend.”

Church laughs. “Of course he did. Thanks. You two have fun.”

Tucker grabs hold of Junior's hand and leads him towards the door. “Thanks man. See you.”

“Yeah, bye.” Church gets up and shuts the door gently behind Tucker and Junior as they walk out of the small apartment. Tucker heads towards the stairs, glancing down at Junior.

“How was school?” He starts heading downstairs carefully, watching just in case Junior trips. Last week he'd tripped, and Tucker swears he nearly had a heart attack.

“It was awesome! We did math stuff but I already knew it because Simmons showed me last week and I looked super duper smart.” Junior swings his and Tucker's hand as they step off the stairs and walk through the lobby of the apartment building.

“Nice!” Tucker holds the door open for Junior and they step out into the cool September air.

“And we started reading a new book about space aliens!” Junior bounces excitedly. “There's like, a whole alien planet full of aliens and they're trying to get free from some evil guys. We're at this part where a dude found a sword, and I think he's supposed to save them later or something.”

“That sounds way cooler than anything I got to read when I was in school.” Tucker stops at the bus stop, eyeing the two men waiting there. He wraps a protective arm around Junior.

“Yeah! It's great.” Junior stops chattering once they board the bus, Tucker handing his bus fare to the driver with a nod. The two of them sit in one of the front most seats, Junior on Tucker's lap in the crowded vehicle.

Tucker wraps his arms around Junior, and his son holds his arms against himself. The weight and warmth of his son comforting him, Tucker stares at the window as the city moves past, grey and black with moisture from the autumn rain. Streetlights are just starting to turn on as the sun presumably sets behind the cloud cover. Junior leans back against Tucker and sighs.

“You got another job, right Dad?” he murmurs, quiet enough so that only Tucker can hear.

“Yeah.” Tucker watches the diner pass by, the restaurant still colorful and busy.

“Am I still gonna get to play with you?” Something throbs painfully in Tucker's chest.

“Yeah, but not as much. Sorry buddy.”

Junior shifts so that his head rests on Tucker's chest. “It's okay.”

Tucker knows it's not okay, not really. But it's two jobs or no apartment, and that is _not_ an option.

* * *

Something about the university campus has always made Tucker feel weird. It's probably because he'd always imagined himself on campus as a _student_ and not like, a fucking janitor-slash-groundskeeper. But whatever, it pays alright, he gets to wear his own clothes, and use the sports and recreation center just like students do. And the library apparently, but Tucker just can't see himself actually taking advantage of that. But it's nice to have options.

Tucker ties the garbage bag shut and lifts it into his cart, straining slightly at the weight. He steps back for a second and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Jeez, are people throwing away fucking bricks in this thing?”

“Yes, actually.” Tucker jumps at _least_ six feet in the air and whirls around. A guy about his age in some sort of martial arts uniform stands in the center of the room, watching him curiously. “Did you just start working here?”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why are you throwing away fucking _bricks_?”

The other man rolls his eyes and puts one hand on his hip. “Because we're breaking them? You're cleaning the tae kwon do room, what did you expect?”

Tucker glares at the guy. “I don't fucking know! What are you even doing here this early? It's like, six thirty.”

“I like to be productive in the morning. What does it matter to you? And isn't this bad customer service or something?”

Tucker snorts. “You're not my customer, the university is.”

The other guys rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever.” He stomps away, and Tucker's about to make another side remark when the guy kicks a hanging punching bag and sends it _flying,_ swinging wildly on its chain.

Tucker turns to his cart of garbage bags. “Note to self: do not piss off people who can break bricks.” He mumbles to himself as he walks away.

“What was that?” The guy is looking at Tucker, and annoyed look on his face.

Whoops. “Nothing!” Tucker starts to push the cart away, heading towards the door.

“Whatever, asshole!” Tucker rolls his eyes at the other guy's indignant shout. Mister I-can-break-shit can have the last word if he wants to.

Tucker shoves the door to the outside with his hips, tugging the cart through behind him. As he heads towards the dumpster, he finds his gaze drawn to the windows, watching the martial arts guy through the glass. He's fairly muscular compared to Tucker, and at least a little terrifying when he does a fucking _spin kick_. Tucker stares in awe. The guy literally just jumped like four feet in the fucking air!

“Wait, is that Tucker?” A familiar voice startles Tucker, and he jerks in (totally manly) surprise, turning around to see Grif and Simmons approaching him on the sidewalk.

“Your new job is _here_?” Grif seems more surprised than is reasonable.

“Yeah? I told you guys this like, last week.” Tucker glares at him. “When I applied for it.”

“Ohhhhh, riiiiiiight.” Grif gets this look that's somewhere between sheepish and confused.

“You just didn't listen, did you.” Simmons rolls his eyes and shoves Grif.

Tucker sighs and starts to push the cart, still mostly looking at his friends. “Yeah, it actually doesn't pay too bad. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be a job for students here, but whatever. I'm just glad for a chance to pick up some hot college chicks, bow chicka wow wow.”

“Dude, _nobody_ is going to date a janitor.” Grif laughs.

“Whatever man, you'd be surprised. Girls like it dirty! Bow chicka wow wow!” Tucker waggles his eyebrows up and down, and Simmons groans.

“Shut _up_!” The skinny man drags a hand down his face.

“What are you guys doing over here anyway?” Tucker snorts. “It's not like Grif is going to go to the fitness center, and it's early.”

“We were gonna go grab breakfast since Simmons survived his math test yesterday.” Grif’s eyes flicker to Simmons, and Tucker can see a hint of pride.

“Nice, dude.” Tucker grins at them.

Simmons smiles back. “I would ask if you wanted to join us, but it's probably not a good idea to drag you away from your first day on the job.”

“Yeah,” Tucker laughs. “I should probably get back to work. See you guys later.”

“Bye!” The couple walks past him as he repositions his grip on the cart and starts to push it once more. Tucker watches the couple as he turns the cart and continues his trek to the dumpster. At least it's not too cold out this morning; in a few months, Tucker's going to have to bundle up. But for now, it's only a bit chilly, and Tucker's plenty comfortable in his teal windbreaker.

* * *

“Dad!” Junior reaches up and tugs on Tucker's sleeve as the two of them make their way through the grocery store.

“What?” Tucker stops pushing the cart for a second and glances down at his son.

“Can we get nutella? Please?” The pleading look on Junior's face hurts Tucker's heart.

“Sorry buddy.” Tucker shakes his head. “Not this time.” He watches with a pang of guilt as Junior's face falls into a disappointed pout. They really can't though. For the price of the nutella, Tucker could get a few pounds of potatoes. Which is mostly what's in his cart at the moment.

“Are we gonna become Irish?” Junior already seems to have gotten over the nutella, and he leans against the cart, bouncing.

Tucker gives him a confused look. “No? Why would we become Irish?”

“Because the Irish eat potatoes. And whiskey.” Junior smiles and Tucker laughs.

“Well, we don't have any whiskey, so I think we're safe.” Tucker grabs a bag of rice and drops it in the cart, where it lands on a banana. Tucker leans over and shifts the rice so that it's not on top of the fruit, and when he looks up, he sees a familiar face.

Martial arts dude is standing right in front of Tucker and Junior and staring straight at them, an expression on his face that Tucker can't quite place. He knows it's not a good one though, and he finds himself glaring at the man, one arm wrapping around Junior protectively.

“Do you want something?” Tucker's voice is a bit sharper than normal, but he can see the pieces falling together in the man's eyes. Tucker knows how this goes. Stranger meets Tucker and Junior. Stranger thinks they're a lovely pair. Stranger realizes Junior is Tucker's son and there's no mother involved. Stranger thinks Tucker and Junior are trash, wastes of space, failures of society.

“You have a kid?” The guy sounds more surprised than anything, but it still causes a pang of defensiveness in Tucker’s chest.

“Yeah. I do.” Tucker looks down at Junior, who seems more confused than anything. “Got a problem with that?”

“No!” The man’s face turns a shade of bright red behind his freckles. “Sorry, I, uh... I'll just...” He waves his hands and starts to turn around when Junior takes a step towards him.

“Who are you?” Junior doesn't seem scared or upset at all, but he throws a quizzical look up at Tucker.

“Oh, I'm, um, Washington.” Washington pauses, half turned around and half still looking at Tucker and Junior. The look on his face reminds Tucker of a deer in the headlights, and he can feel his anger fizzling out.

“I'm Junior!” Before Tucker can do anything to stop him, Junior walks over to Washington and extends his fist up at him solemnly. “We gotta fist bump and then we can be friends.”

Tucker watches as Washington slowly lifts his hand and gently fist bumps Junior, who grins and looks back at Tucker.

“See dad? Now you don't have to be mad at him.” Washington looks completely and totally stunned.

“I'm not mad at him, Junior.” Tucker looks back and forth between his son and Washington, still not sure if he's being judged or not. “C'mon, we still need to get frozen stuff.”

Junior walks back over to him, glancing over his shoulder at Washington. Tucker tugs at the cart, turning it out of the aisle and pushing it towards the frozen section.

“Wait!” Tucker turns around to see an embarrassed looking Washington following him. “What's your name?”

“It's Tucker.” Tucker watches as a hesitant smile spreads across Washington's face. He smiles back.

* * *

Washington jerks upright, his face covered in a sheen of sweat and the bedsheets tangled around him. He brings his hands to his head and chokes on the air, squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately to return his breathing to normal. His lungs feel like they're on fire, and Wash curls in on himself. It feels like the panic is only growing worse by the second, and Washington forces himself to get out of the bed and stumble to the door on shaky legs. He flips the light switch on and scans the room, back pressed against the doorframe.

“Fuck.” He inches towards his bed and grits his teeth before lifting the corner of his bedsheet and staring at the empty space underneath. He drops the sheet and stumbles over to his closet, throwing the door open and breathing a shaky sigh of relief when he only sees clothes inside.

A dark shape nudges Wash's door open, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, completely ready to murder the intruder until he recognizes them.

“I swear to god. These cats are going to fucking kill me.” Even as he complains, he kneels and extends a still shaking hand out to the small grey tabby and pats him gently on the head.

“Seriously Theta, you scared the shit out of me.” Theta doesn't respond, tilting his head so that Wash can scratch behind his ears better. He sits down and stays like that for a few moments, letting Theta crawl into his lap, purring and nudging Wash with his small, furry head. Even though he gets a lot of teasing about it, Washington is really glad to have his cats. If he didn't, he's pretty sure he'd have gone totally insane by now. He sighs and lies down on his floor, staring up at the ceiling. He should probably try to go back to sleep. Twisting, he looks over at his alarm clock and sees 4:46 on the bright yellow display.

Wash pulls himself into a sitting position again with a groan. There's not really any point in going back to bed for an hour of likely restless sleep, and if he leaves early, he can get something nicer than a banana for breakfast.

Well, time to hop in the shower.

* * *

Washington pulls into the parking space and shifts his car into park. He sits and stares blankly through his windshield at the cafe for a few moments, letting the heater keep running. Predictably, the shop is deserted. It doesn't even open until five thirty, and with a glance, Washington confirms that he's got to wait ten minutes before he can get his hands on some warm caffeine. Nobody in their right mind would be up this early if they could help it.

Wash thinks back to yesterday morning, when that guy- Tucker, that's right- said something along those lines. Seems kind of ironic, given that he was up early too. Washington laughs a little and leans forward onto the steering wheel, closing his eyes. Tucker probably doesn’t have a choice though. The guy has to be around Washington's age, and his kid is easily five or six.

Wash does feel a little bad for yesterday. The look on Tucker's face hadn't been hostility exactly; it had reminded Washington of a mother bear protecting her cubs. And Washington is probably going to be seeing the guy every day for a while.

Wash sighs. They hadn't exactly gotten off on the right foot. His kid had seemed nice too- big, innocent smile and a sparkle in his eyes. Sure, Tucker hadn't been the friendliest, but Wash knows that he's been kinda tesy too lately. Washington should do something nice for Tucker. Make up for their first meeting, get them on a little friendlier footing.

Spying movement in the edge of his vision, Washington picks his head up and watches the owner of the shop flip the sign on the door to show “open” in bright red block letters. He smiles and twists the key, turning off his car and hopping out into the crisp air. His back pops as he stretches, and he heads into the cozy building. The warm lighting of the store illuminates the clusters of soft chairs and bean bags along with normal restaurant tables and chairs. A familiar face with short brown hair and a scarred left eye watches him from behind the counter.

“Hey, Wash! Nice to see you outside of the dojang for once.” York grins at him and crosses his arms playfully over the front of his chest.

“Hi, York. You'll be there later?” Washington walks to the front of the counter and stops, glancing up at the chalkboard menu hanging behind York.

“Seeing as I want to keep my other eye, I kinda have to.” York chuckles. “What can I getcha?”

“Uhhh...” Washington pauses. Does Tucker even like coffee?

“Don't strain yourself there.” York's voice is oozing with teasing laughter.

“Shut it.” Wash rolls his eyes. “I'll get two coffees with milk and two blueberry muffins.”

York's eyebrows go up as he types the order into the register. “Meeting someone?”

“No,” Wash puts a hand on the back of his neck. “I was kinda rude to this guy and I wanted to make it up to him.”

“Is “this guy” cute?” York hits a button. “That'll be four dollars and ninety eight cents.”

Wash hands him his card. “York, I'm not interested in him. I'm just trying to not piss off everyone I meet.” He watches as York swipes his card and hands it back to him. “He got the job cleaning the sports center. I don't want to be on bad terms with someone I see every day who also has control over the smelliness of the bathrooms.”

“Alright, I believe you.” York hands Wash a receipt. “I'll go make those coffees. What's this guy's name? If he's cleaning the dojang, I'll probably run into him too.”

“It's Tucker.” Wash peers over the edge of the counter to watch York pour milk into the two coffees.

“Gotcha.” York sets the coffees down. “Hey, Wash?”

“Yeah?” Washington's brow furrows. York isn't smiling anymore.

“Are you okay? You look tired.” York keeps his voice light, but Wash can see the concern in his eyes as he pulls two muffins out of the display case.

“I'm fine.” Washington does not feel like talking about his dreams. There's nothing major going on, nothing he can't handle on his own.

York gives him a dubious look as he sets the bag holding the muffins down next to the coffee on the counter. “You know, for all of Carolina's... enthusiasm, she'd let you take a break if you asked. Training is important, but you're not going to do well in tournaments or in class if you aren't getting enough sleep.”

“I said I'm fine.” Washington takes the bag and the drinks. “See you later, York.”

York sighs. “See you, Wash.”

* * *

Washington kicks his car door shut behind him as he steps out into the parking lot. The sun has just started to rise, painting the sky a bright peach color, pink clouds swirling around the tops of tall buildings. Wash walks quickly towards the sports center, ignoring the main entrance and instead turning onto the sidewalk. The rose bushes planted along the red brick building are all green, no flowers in sight, and a thorn snags itself on Wash's jeans when he turns to the side door leading to the dojo.

He stands there dumbly for a second, a coffee in each hand and bag of muffins tucked between his left elbow and chest. The door is a pull door. All of the doors are, actually. _And_ they require his key card. Washington groans and thumps his head against the cool glass of the door.

“Need a hand?” Washington turns around to see Tucker, key card in hand, standing just behind him.

“Please.” Washington moves aside, letting Tucker wave his card in front of the reader and pull the door open, sticking the card into the pocket of his windbreaker. He holds the door open as Washington ducks inside, enjoying the rush of heated air.

“Thanks.” Washington smiles at Tucker, who smiles back. The animosity from yesterday seems to have disappeared, at least for the moment.

“No problem. Two coffee kind of morning?” Tucker nods at the drinks in Washington's hands, and Wash immediately feels heat creep up his neck and face.

“Actually... this one's for you.” Washington holds out the cup that he hasn't been drinking from. “I got you a muffin too.”

Tucker takes the cup with wide eyes, and Washington pulls the muffin out of the bag while he watches.

“...thanks.” Tucker sounds a bit confused.

“It's sort of an apology for yesterday. I didn't mean to offend you, sorry.” Wash looks at the corner rather than Tucker's face, ignoring the prickle of anxiety in his throat. He's faced much worse than an apology.

“Oh, uh, that's fine.” Now Tucker sounds a bit sheepish, and Wash looks up to see his face completely free from any anger. “Most people are really quick to judge me and Junior, and I just kind of anticipate it at this point, I guess.”

“I wasn't judging, I was just surprised.” Wash offers a smile to Tucker. It had surprised him, seeing Tucker with his son, but clearly Tucker cares a lot about Junior, and it's not exactly like Wash is the perfect young adult either.

Tucker shrugs. “Most people are.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and his face screws up. “Dude, where's the sugar?”

Wash laughs. “Sorry, I didn't know how you like to drink it.”

“If the sugar all dissolves, it's not sweet enough.” Tucker grins. “Guess I'll be seeing a lot of you around here, huh?”

“Yeah.” Washington nods. “Training is important in tae kwon do.”

“Do you guys win?” Tucker takes a huge bite of his muffin, crumbs sticking to his lips.

Wash nods, feeling a swell of pride. “We're the best there is.”

“Sweet, dude!” Tucker's voice is muffled by his mouthful of muffin. “I need to watch you beat some people up sometime.”

“Our next competition is a tournament in two weeks. You could even bring Junior, as long as he's five or older.” Washington takes a small bite from the top of his muffin.

“He's six.” Tucker's earlier guardedness seems to return.

Washington pauses. Tucker can't be any older than 22, and even that's a stretch... He swallows and ignores his curiosity.

“So he's good to watch then. They just don't want children who need diaper changes or are going to start screaming in the middle of it all.”

Tucker seems to relax, a soft sigh leaving him. “Makes sense.” He glances at his watch as he takes another bite of the fast disappearing muffin. “Well, looks like I've got to go and actually do my job. Shift starts in like, negative two minutes.”

Wash smiles at him. “Go ahead. I'll be inside, training like I'm supposed to be.” He gives Tucker a little wave and watches as the man steps back outside, his ponytail of dreads swinging slightly as he moves. As Tucker disappears from view, Washington shakes himself and turns back to the inside of the building. In front of him, a short, dimly lit hallway leads directly to the dojang. The dojang isn't exactly... normal, for a dojang at least. There are three exits- the hall Washington came through, a door with a glass window panel leading to the main building, and a ratty black curtain covering the entrance to the changing rooms. The plain grey walls, undecorated save for the many windows, aren't unusual, and neither is the floor lined in black foam pads. Nobody would find the shiny metal shelves filled with equipment or the three hanging punching bags to be odd.

The far right side of the room, however, is a bit strange. The floor is bare for about 25 feet from the wall, except for the fuzzy purple rug. A large, black couch and two purple armchairs (not the same shade as the rug or each other, and a good bit frayed) sit surrounding the rug, which is topped off with a stained, scratched, and ugly wooden coffee table. There are two dicks and a hand sporting a middle finger drawn onto it with sharpie.

Wash’s favorite part of the “lounge,” as they've dubbed it, is on the back wall. Two mini fridges, one spray painted purple and very dented and the other brand new, sit on the floor next to a coffee machine and microwave, both also on the concrete floor. On top of the microwave, two gallon jugs of water sit side by side. A wicker basket holds a mixture of plastic utensils, paper plates, styrofoam cups, and plastic bowls. There's also one chopstick.

Washington makes his way over to the pair of fridges, downing the last of his coffee in one gulp. He pulls open the metal fridge and sets his muffin down inside, hiding it behind a tupperware labelled “Carolina's DO NOT EAT” and a jar of what _appears_ to be gummy bears. Wash doesn’t question it. He glances around and spots the large, rolling garbage can tucked away by the door leading to the main sports center hallway, and he tosses his empty cup, smiling when it falls into the garbage.

“Yes!” Wash does a little victory fist pump and stands up fully, stretching his spine out and yawning like a cat. He kicks off his shoes and picks them up, walking on sock feet to the shelves. His stuff is neatly piled right on top of some other uniforms, just where he'd left it last night. Wash sets his shoes down under the shelf and starts taking off his socks, hopping on one leg to pull each one off, when he sees a familiar pair of shoes resting not far from his own. He drops his socks on top of his shoes and looks around cautiously, eyeing each corner like it could be hiding someone.

“...Carolina?” He calls out hesitantly. Judging by the lack of a response, she's somewhere else in the sports center. Washington grabs his uniform and heads to the changing rooms, brushing aside the black curtain and turning right towards the paper sign labeled with a poorly drawn penis and “men.” A second black curtain guards the men's changing room (alcove, really) and Wash steps inside, closing the curtain behind him. He changes quickly, not wasting any time because honestly, the dark changing room, with stained walls and dusty floors, _really_ gives him the creeps.

As he walks back towards the dojang, a faint voice echoes from the hallway deeper in the building.

“Yes, I know.” Carolina's voice, followed by a short nothingness. “We'll be ready. We're _already_ ready.” She sighs as whoever she's on the phone with probably says something unpleasant.

Wash puts his clothes down on the shelf just as Carolina walks into the dojang, phone clutched tightly in her hand. She's already in her uniform, the white fabric and her black belt making her hair seem even more red.

“Morning.” Wash decides not to mention the phone conversation, or the homicidal look on her face.

“Washington.” Apparently Carolina is not in a talking mood. Cool. Wash can deal with that. He walks over towards the center of the room, giving her a wide berth. He starts to warm up, doing jumping jacks and trying to ignore the fact that she's staring at him.

“Did you go home last night?” She doesn't sound particularly amused, and Wash can tell the question is a real one.

“ _Yes._ Has York got you doing this too?” Wash crosses his arms and leans on one leg. Warm ups can wait a minute.

“No. North said you were here past midnight last night.” Carolina fixes Washington with an even gaze, and he can feel defensiveness rising up inside of him.

“How would he know? He left at nine!” Washington huffs. “And I left at like, eleven. I probably was asleep hours earlier than South ever is.” He starts doing jumping jacks again, just to use up some of his frustration.

“South isn't here before sunrise every day.” Carolina walks towards the punching bags on the left side of the room. “If you're sure you're okay, I'll trust you on that. Wanna do some kicks? I'll hold the bag.” Washington pauses and looks at her, seeing the type of exhaustion that you don't get from missing sleep, and realizes that she probably needs a distraction as much as he does.

“Sounds good to me.” Washington walks over to the punching bag.

* * *

Washington tosses his jacket over the counter and stretches, popping his neck slowly. He's home early, if only to avoid North’s inevitable nagging and yet another shouting match between Carolina and Texas, and he's got to admit that it's kinda nice to have some time to himself before the sun sets.

Time which he should _probably_ use to sleep, but Wash doesn’t really think that’s happening anytime soon. So he sits down on the stool by his stone countertop, staring at his blurry reflection in the granite. Short blonde hair, check. Freckles spattered across his face and creeping down his neck, check. Edges of a puckered red scar on the back of his neck, burning into his skin, fire behind him on him-

Nope. Wash yanks his gaze away from his reflection and stares at the floor. He can feed the cats. They always make him feel better. He heaves himself off of the stool with a sigh and drags his feet back towards the door, kicking off his sneakers one at a time. He leaves his socks on, scooting across the floor like a kid and trying to focus on the sensation of one tile shifting into the next under his feet, not the prickling of anxiety on his spine, like he’s being watched.

It’s funny, when he got this house, it was supposed to make him feel safe again. New neighborhood, new neighbors, top notch security, locks on all the doors instead of just the front door. He still doesn’t feel safe. Wash never feels safe. He stops in his short hallway and turns around, back to the kitchen and front door. Moving slowly, he starts with the front door, examining the hinges and the locks to make sure they’re all still intact. They’re fine, as usual, and he moves to the kitchen, opening the closest door. Two pans, a pot, and his blender go on the smooth grey tile. Nobody is in the cabinet, unless a dead spider counts. Wash stands up, sighing, and grabs a paper towel to get the spider and throw it away. Two pans, a pot, and his blender go back into their home.

Wash pauses, surveying the kitchen. He doesn’t have a lot of stuff to move around, sure. But he did this last night. And the night before. Nobody is _ever_ in his house, except for him, Theta, and Delta. He opens the drawer in front of him and stares blankly at the shiny silver utensils looking back at him. All of his knives are right where he left them. Wash walks stiffly over to the other side of his kitchen, pulls open the upper cabinet. His mugs and glasses stare back at him, and he grabs the first mug to empty the cabinet even though he can _see_ that nobody is in there.

A loud beeping startles him and Washington drops the mug, the musical sound of breaking glass echoing in his ears. Panic starts to burn in his chest, until he recognizes the noise as his cell phone. He forces himself to move, carefully stepping around the white ceramic shards. He digs his phone out of the pocket of his jacket with shaking hands, pressing the answer button without checking to see who's calling.

“Hey, Wash!” North doesn't wait for a reply. “You left your textbook at the dojang.”

Wash sighs, running his free hand through his hair. “Crap.” He can't leave his house right now. Fuck, he's not sure he can leave his kitchen.

“Do you want me to bring it over?” North's voice is still light, and Washington takes a deep breath, willing himself to sound calm.

“That'd be great.” He plasters a fake grin on his face. Isn't smiling supposed to make you feel better, even if you're not actually happy? _Especially_ if you're not actually happy?

“I’ll be over in a minute.” Wash hears the _click_ as North hangs up. Well fuck. He doesn’t really have any choice now; he _has_ to get his shit together before North finds him like this. Wash inches around the perimeter of his kitchen, avoiding the glass pieces and opening his pantry door carefully. Nothing inside but his garbage can, some food, and his broom and dustpan. He grabs the broom and starts carefully sweeping what _looks_ like nothing towards the center of the glass. It’s not paranoid, he reasons. Tiny piece of glass _hurt._ He carefully scoots forward, sweeping the area around him in soft strokes, the glass starting to amass in a pile. Looking at the shards, he notices that they’re all white, meaning that he broke a cheap mug from Walmart and not a gift from one of his friends.

Wash takes a step back and grabs the dustpan from the pantry, sweeping the shards into it and dumping them in his garbage can. After a moment of consideration, he sticks a paper towel under the tap, squeezes it out, and wipes the floor. The paper towel comes up grey. When was the last time he _really_ cleaned in here, not just looked for intruders that are never there?

Two knocks at the door startle Wash, but not enough for him to drop anything. He shoves the broom and dustpan back into the pantry.

“Coming!” Washington hops over to the door and opens it to North, who’s holding Washington’s anatomy textbook and smiling. “You got here quick.”

North shrugs. “I was at home when I called you, not the dojang.” Wash looks over his shoulder to see the house across the street, lights on and both cars parked in the driveway- one purple truck and one small, silver car.

“In that case, you took your time.” Wash steps aside, and North steps into his house, glancing around. His gaze settles in one corner of the room, and Wash turns around to see what he’s looking at. Theta is halfway in the kitchen and halfway in the hallway, his tail arched up over his back and his face alert. Wash sighs.

“Can I stay a little while?” North is still looking at Theta.

“You’re just here to steal my cat.” Washington holds out his hands, and North passes him the textbook and walks past him to the small grey animal on the other side of the room.

“Who’s a pretty kitty? You are!” Wash watches as North scratches Theta’s chin and the cat purrs audibly.

“Why don't we go to the living room so that you don't have to sit in my hallway?” Wash squeezes past North and walks down the hall, ignoring the anxiety in the back of his mind. He's perfectly safe.

“I'm still not over how little sense your house makes.” North is following him, and when Wash glances back he can see the blonde man carrying Theta, the cat cradled to his chest.

“I like it.” Washington thinks his house is _just fine._ There's nothing weird about it.

“Sure, whatever you say.” North chuckles as Wash fumbles with the door, his hands shaking slightly. He pulls the door open and steps onto the beige carpet, moving aside so North can go in front of him. North plops onto the tan couch and lifts his feet, resting them on the black coffee table. Wash sits in the armchair off to the side and tries to avoid thinking about how many windows there are in this room. Two of the four walls are almost all glass, with 1/2 foot spaces in between and blinds that didn’t block all of the light even if they were closed. It would be _so easy_ for someone to smash one of them and get into Wash’s house.

“So, Wash.” North is still petting Theta when Wash turns to look at him. “Are you ready for next Saturday?” The tournament. It’s not even a big one, but they all matter. Even if Carolina let them forget that, her dad wouldn’t.

“Of course.” Wash stares just to the left of Theta, at a plain patch of couch. “When am I not?”

North chuckles. “Fair enough. York and Carolina are meeting South and I for dinner Friday night and Maine is bringing breakfast on the day of. Wanna come?”

“Sure. Where?” Washington loves team meals, and North knows that.

“Cath’s Greasy Spoon. Where else?” North stretches, starling Theta. The cat dashes off, disappearing into the hall. North stares after him.

“Sounds great.” Washington could certainly do with a hot meal. Protein bars, coffee, and store bought sandwiches get old after a while.

“I should head out.” North stands up. “I’ve still got enough homework to drown myself in it.” He yawns.

“Better get to it then.” Wash stands up to match North. “See you tomorrow.”

North nods and starts to walk down the hall towards the front door, Wash trailing behind him. Washington watches as he opens the door, cold air spilling into the kitchen.

“See you.” North pauses halfway through the door and glances back at Wash. “Hey, Wash?” His voice is soft and serious.

“Yeah?” Washington’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Get some rest. Nothing’s going to happen.” He shuts the door behind him, and Wash stares blankly at the white painted wood, seeing North walk back to his own house through the glass in his peripheral vision.

North can see through his windows.


	2. 2//september

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the days grow colder, hearts grow warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you write good chapter summaries? You don't!

Tucker pulls the elastic out of his hair with a sigh, letting his dreads fall to his shoulders. 

“All I'm saying is that black is  _ definitely _ not your color. You should stick with maroon, it suits you.” Donut is leaning back in his chair, one hand gesturing towards Simmons.

“Were you even listening? My jacket got  _ destroyed _ . I can't ‘stick with maroon’ because it got chewed to fucking pieces by Sarge's new motor!” Simmons stands up and starts to pace back and forth in Church’s living room, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You're the one who volunteered to help him with it, kissass.” Grif isn't even looking at Simmons, instead rooting around in a Doritos bag.

“Oh, shut up! You were asleep, what do you know?” Simmons is turning red, and Grif just rolls his eyes.

“You guys seriously need to get laid,” Tucker mutters, laying his head down on the table and staring at the wall to his left. It's white.

“Hey, idiots, the pizza’s ready.” Tucker picks his head back up at Church's voice. He's holding a pizza cutter in a way that looks mildly threatening, and his brown hair is messy. 

“Fuck yeah!” Grif stands up, crumpling his Doritos bag and walking past Church into his kitchen. Simmons trails behind him, and Church turns around, saying something Tucker can't hear.

“I'll go get Junior and Caboose.” Tucker stands up and pushes his chair in, walking towards Caboose's bedroom. He pushes open the door carefully and smiles when he sees his son sitting in Caboose's lap, holding a small robot action figure and making explosion noises.

“And then they all blow up! Kaboom!” Junior notices Tucker and smiles, his arms dropping. “Hi, Dad!” 

“Hey, buddy. Dinner’s ready.” Tucker pushes the door all the way open and takes a step onto Caboose's bright blue rug. Caboose is staring at Tucker blankly, his brown hair a mess as usual and his blue eyes unmoving.

“Tucker! What about the robot army?” Caboose's gaze darts to the pile of plastic toys, all of them robots of some form.

“They'll wait, Caboose!” Junior answers for Tucker, standing up and pulling on Caboose. “C’mon, I want pizza!”

“The robots will not wait for pizza!” Caboose stands up anyways, looking back and forth between Tucker and Junior. Junior leads him to the door, and Tucker turns around, heading back towards the kitchen.

“-fuck’s sake Grif, only three pieces each! How many times do I have to tell you this shit?” Church is yelling, as usual.

“Dad, can I have two pepperonis and one of the meat?” Junior points at the pizzas, one pepperoni, one supreme, and one completely loaded with meat. 

“Sure.” Tucker grabs two plates and loads them up, two pepperoni and one meat on each. He hands one plate and a napkin to Junior, who takes it with a smile. Tucker leads him back to the kitchen table and sits down next to him. At this point, everyone except Caboose had managed to get their pieces. Tucker watches as Grif eyes Church's plate with obvious hunger, one of his pieces already gone. Simmons is picking at his supreme pizza, pulling off all of the mushrooms and putting them on Grif's plate, while Donut takes a bite of meat pizza.

“I do love stuffing meat in my mouth! It's delicious!” His voice is slightly muffled by the food.

“Dude,  _ stop _ !” Church calls from the kitchen, and Tucker turns to see him putting pizza on a plate for Caboose, who is jumping up and down and shouting something incomprehensible. Church hands the plate to Caboose, who makes a strange howling noise. Junior nudges Tucker, and he looks at his son.

“Caboose is a werewolf now.” Junior whispers, the look on his face totally serious. Tucker can't help but smile, and he ruffles Junior's short, curly hair.   
Church and Caboose sit down at the table and start to eat. Tucker stares down at his pizza blankly. His stomach hurts, a strange, gnawing pain. It's like he swallowed ice. He watches as Junior eats, comforted by the fact that he wouldn't be going hungry tonight. Church had paid for the pizzas- his treat, he'd said. Tucker couldn't afford pizza right now. 

“Not hungry?” Grif asks, his plate empty. Tucker blinks.

“No, uh, I'll take it home for later.” He'll let Junior have it. Pizza is a rare treat, and Tucker's had it more times than Junior has anyway.

Grif shrugs. “Alright then.” He seems like he's going to say more, but Simmons puts his crusts on Grif's plate, effectively distracting him. Tucker stands up and carries his plate into the kitchen.

“Hey, Church?” He opens a cabinet and pulls out a plastic container. “I'm borrowing a Tupperware.” 

“Yeah, go ahead.” Church sounds like he has a mouthful of pizza. Tucker's stomach does a flip, and if he thinks about it, he's hungry. But he's so tired that it's easy to ignore. 

So he does. He snaps the lid on the container and walks back over to the table, sitting down in his spot. Junior is gnawing on his last crust, not really paying attention as he listens to Caboose whisper-shout about Sheila, his car. Tucker leans on his arm, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. He's hungry and he's tired, but Junior is happy. That's what matters.    


* * *

Tucker leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. He’s still got his broomstick in one hand, but that’s fine.

“Soooooo, Saturday?” Tucker grins at Wash, who doesn't look particularly shocked.

“What about it?” He's doing sit ups, and each time he does a rep, he looks at Tucker with a very unimpressed look.

“Are you guys competing?” There's a sign hanging outside the door with the tournament advertised, promising clean restrooms, a concession stand, and lots of fighting. Tucker can't make it; he's working. But Junior could watch if Church took him. 

“Yeah.” Washington flips over and settles into his forearms, holding his plank with ease. “It's an open competition so there's going to be a lot of people.” 

“Really? It'll be a walk in the park then.” Tucker watches Washington stay perfectly still. How is he human? Tucker can't hold a plank for even like, thirty seconds.

Wash snorts. “Yeah, for the first round or two. Knowing my luck I'll get paired with someone skilled right away.” He pauses. “You haven't even seen me fight. What makes you think I'm any good?”

Tucker glances at his watch. “You just did 200 sit-ups and you've been in a plank for nearly two minutes?” That's not it, really. Tucker's not sure why, but he just sort of gets a vibe from Wash. An I-could-kill-you-with-my-pinky-but-I-won't vibe.

“That's not an indicator of my fighting ability.” Wash drops out of the plank and stands up in one fluid motion. “Most people can fight fairly well when trained even if they're not in shape. Physical fitness just makes you faster and increases your stamina.”

Tucker waggles his eyebrows. “Bow chicka wow wow.” 

“Ugh.” Wash groans and facepalms. “Not  _ that _ kind of stamina.” He walks towards the punching bags, still looking at Tucker. “Hey, who’s officially your boss?”

“Carolina Church?” Tucker tilts his head, confused. 

“Don't say her last name. She'll kill you.” Washington glances back at Tucker. “Did she say what your job was specifically?”

Tucker swallows. “To clean the sports and rec center, unlock the front entrance in the morning, keep the surrounding area neat, and help out any students who need it?” Where is Wash going with this?

“Perfect.” Wash looks Tucker straight in the eye and oh boy there is something diabolical in his hazel eyes. “You can hold the punching bag while I practice kicks.

“ _ What _ .” That sounds painful. “Can't you just kick it?”

Wash rolls his eyes. “And have it go swinging everywhere so I have to stop between each kick and steady it?” 

Tucker can see his point. “Okay, that makes sense, but this kinda sounds like it's going to hurt.” 

“It won't if you do it right.” Wash gestures to the broom “Set that down and come here. Oh, and take your shoes off.”

Tucker leans the broom against the wall and kicks his ratty sneakers off of his feet slowly, still suspicious. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” He stops next to the black leather punching bag, awkwardly staring at it. 

“Lean against it with one hip and hold it with both hands.” Washington watches as Tucker presses himself against the bag, the leather cool and surprisingly hard. Tucker’s not sure what he was expecting. It’s not like it was going to be squishy or something. Wash makes a thinking noise and grabs Tucker’s left hand by the wrist, moving it higher on the bag. 

“No, like this.” Tucker is grateful for his dark skin because he has absolutely  _ no reason _ to be blushing at this. He’s probably just desperate from not getting any for like, six fucking years, but something about the cool certainty in Wash’s voice and the rough skin of his hands has Tucker very aware of how close together they’re standing. And then Washington steps away, settling into some sort of fighting stance.

“Brace yourself.” And that's all the warning Tucker gets before Washington does a little step and his leg shoots out, hitting the bag at Tucker's hip level. Tucker staggers back, blinking. He's still got ahold of the bag, though.

“Jesus  _ fuck _ .” Wash can kick, that's for fucking sure.

“Huh.” Wash tilts his head. “I thought for sure you'd get knocked into the wall.” 

“What? You-” Tucker is interrupted by Washington kicking the bag, this time without a little step and at Tucker's head level, slapping the leather of the bag against his face. “-fucking ass!” Tucker's cheek stings.

“It's better than cleaning, isn't it?” Washington gives Tucker a sly smile, which Tucker  _ almost _ returns. Almost, because Wash kicks the bag again, and Tucker has to put all of his efforts into not flying into the wall. 

“Dude, I am going to be so sore tomorrow.” Another kick. “Bow chicka wow wow.” 

Washington snorts. “I can't believe you're still doing that.” He punches the bag at Tucker's shoulder level, confirming Tucker's suspicion that his arms are just as strong as his legs. 

“Hey, what can I say? Gotta stay on brand.” Tucker grins at Washington from behind the bag.

Washington rolls his eyes and does another one of those step-kicks. “What does that even _ mean _ ?”

“I’m glad to see you and Tucker are getting along.” A familiar female voice startles Tucker, and he turns his head to see a tall girl with her red hair pulled into a ponytail.

“Carolina?” Washington sounds... guilty? “I was just practicing, you know, for the tournament, and I asked if-”

Carolina chuckles. “Relax. It's not like he can clean this place for six hours every day anyway.” She kicks off her shoes. Tucker releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He needs this job. Carolina walks over to the metal rack and grabs a teal backpack from the bottom shelf. 

“I was wondering about that.” Wash is watching her, giving Tucker a break from holding the bag. 

“Yeah, I forgot to grab it last night,” Carolina sighs. “Thankfully, I actually got my homework done  _ early _ for once.” 

Wash grimaces. “God, I still have that stupid essay for nutrition.” Tucker feels a pang of something that could be jealousy, but he isn't sure. In another world, maybe  _ he's _ a university student complaining about homework, not a fucking  _ janitor _ .

“Good luck!” Carolina chuckles as she walks back to the door. “See you later, Wash.” 

“Bye, Carolina.” Wash turns back to Tucker as the door closes behind Carolina. “She's definitely not the worst boss you could have.”

Tucker nods. “Yeah, for sure.” He grimaces, remembering his interview. “She, uh, wasn't as nice when I applied.” He distinctly remembers the curt replies and glares. 

“Yeah...” Washington looks off to the side. “She can be a bit terrifying. All of the girls here can be, actually. I wouldn't recommend hitting on them.” Wash gets back into his fighting stance thing, and Tucker braces against the bag.

“Let me guess,” Tucker pauses as Washington kicks. “They’ll kill me?”    
Wash chuckles. “Something like that. Carolina and Texas are taken, and South isn’t really... the dating type. But yeah, they’d kill you.” Something about that sounds familiar.

“Wait, Texas? As in, blonde psychopath Texas?” Tucker tries to piece together memories, searching his brain for any of the people Wash has mentioned.

“You know Texas?” Wash stops hitting the bag. “Yikes.” Tucker agrees, a little bit.

“Yeah, I’m friends with her boyfriend...” His brain comes to a halt as he realizes something  _ very _ strange. “...Church.”

Washington gives Tucker a look that somehow manages to be shocked, angry, and blank all at once. “Church.”

“Yeah.” Tucker swallows. “Church. Who goes by his last name. And has a sister that he doesn’t talk about much.” 

“How did you not notice that he has the same name as both your boss and her boss, who is also her father?” Washington sounds  _ thoroughly _ unimpressed.

“I, uh.” Tucker flounders. “I didn’t really pay much attention to that?”    
Wash crosses his arms over his chest. “You didn’t pay attention to your boss’s name.”

“I don’t know man!” Tucker throws his hands up in the air. “I was thinking about more important stuff!” He looks away from Washington, and neither of them say anything for a minute. Tucker just... can’t believe he missed this. Church  _ always _ talks about family drama, but he never really says names, just “my father,” or “my sister,” or “my mom” if it’s getting really ugly. Church isn’t even that common of a name! He stares at the well-used black foam flooring. Fuck, he might lose the job. If what Church has said about his dad is any indication of the man himself, he’s not going to keep one of Church’s friends hired for very long. Tucker  _ can’t _ lose this job. He can feel the blood draining from his face, anxiety prickling in his throat and fingertips. He shouldn’t have had toast this morning, shouldn’t have wasted food that Junior is going to need if Tucker loses this job. 

“Tucker?” Washington’s voice is soft, almost concerned, and Tucker’s gaze snaps back to him. “Let’s agree to not mention this to Carolina or the Director.” He smiles awkwardly at Tucker, who sighs in slight relief.

“Yeah. Let’s do that. Church is religious sounding anyway, so it can’t be that rare of a name.” Tucker smiles back at Wash, relaxing. He’s fine.

“So, you wanna grab ahold of that bag again?” Wash steps back into his stance.

“Bow chicka wow wow!” It’s  _ totally _ worth it when the bag smacks Tucker in the face because he wasn’t quite ready.

* * *

 

Donut lies back on the couch and sighs, a smile on his face. Now,  _ this _ is how things should be. Freshly painted nails, a glass of red wine, and a face mask. He lets his eyes slide shut, enjoying the cool feeling of the clay drying on his skin. 

“ _ Grif _ I swear to god, it's due  _ tomorrow _ , you can't say you're going to do it the night before to get out of doing it if it's already the night before!” Simmons's voice echoes through the apartment, high pitched and upset. But he's not talking to Donut, so Donut doesn't move except to take a careful sip of wine. He wouldn't want to spill!   
A low murmur that Donut assumes is Grif responding follows. Simmons makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a groan, and something crashes in their room.

“It's a GROUP PROJECT and everybody else has done their part already! It's definitely my business!” Another inaudible reply from Grif. “I can't fucking  _ believe _ you!” The door to Grif's room slams shut, and Simmons comes stomping out. Donut hears him drop down onto an armchair, and when he opens one eye to look at him, Simmons's head is buried in his hands.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Simmons groans. “Don't start.” 

“Sorry.” Donut carefully sets his wine glass on the coffee table and sits up, watching Simmons. “Do you need a hand on the project?” 

“Thanks, but you know how Sarge is.” Simmons sighs. “He's only going to accept it if it's done  _ properly _ , and that means everyone has to do their part.” Donut gives him a sympathetic look.

“Do you want some wine?” Donut gestures towards the kitchen. “I've got plenty.”   
“Still underage.” Simmons sounds so miserable that Donut feels his heart breaking a little. 

“My bad, I forgot.” Donut reaches over and grabs Simmons's right hand, giving it a squeeze. “You'll be okay, even if the project isn't finished. One bad grade isn't going to hurt you.”

Simmons looks at him. “I know, I just... I want Sarge to see that I'm competent, you know?” Donut nods.

“I'm sure he already does. He's got you as the TA for his freshmen, doesn't he?” Donut watches as Simmons nods slowly. 

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Donut.” He gives Donut a small smile, and Donut feels relief blossom inside of him. 

“No problem! When your mood is down, just come to me. I love to get it up!” Donut grins, and Simmons rolls his eyes, still smiling. 

“Hey, kissass.” Grif's voice startles Donut, and he turns to give him a disapproving look. Now is not the time.

“What.” Simmons's smile is gone, and he's glaring at Grif. 

“Check your email.” Grif turns around and walks back into his room, shutting the door behind him. “I'm going to sleep now!” His voice carries through the door, and Donut hears a thump that must be Grif flopping onto his bed.

“Holy shit.” At Simmons's whisper, Donut turns to him. He's staring at his phone, eyes wide. “He actually did it. This is like, a week's worth of work.”

Donut smiles. “That's great!”

“But...” Simmons looks at Donut, confused. “He  _ never _ does his work on time!”   
Donut shrugs. “Maybe he did it because he knew how much it matters to you.” 

Simmons raises an eyebrow. “ _ Or _ because I threatened to hide his food if he didn't.” He snickers, and Donut laughs too.    


* * *

Wash leans his forehead against the cool surface of the table, staring at his lap blearily. The really great part about having a mute friend is that it takes less effort to look away than to plug your ears if you're ignoring them. 

Maine grunts and slaps Washington's arm. Wash just sighs. It's still not an easy task. Maine hits him, this time on the top of his head, and he sits up immediately, before Maine kills him. 

“ _ Are you competing on Saturday? _ ” Maine signs at Washington aggressively, looking fairly annoyed with Wash for ignoring him. 

“Yeah...?” He's already told Maine that, so why is he asking?

“ _ Under which division? _ ” Oh. Maine is just staring Wash down, and Wash tries his best to not look like a deer caught in the headlights.

“... welterweight?” Good one, Wash. You can never go wrong with Olympic divisions.

Maine groans a raspy, irritated groan. “ _ You didn't even read the paper _ .” He fishes a crumpled flyer out of his pocket and slams it on the table. “ _ You're in men's intermediate black belt. It's a privately run tournament, so they're doing thing differently. _ ”    
Washington scans the paper, looking for the divisions. Maine is right, and Wash can feel an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.

“Nobody gave me a paper!” 

“ _ Yeah, I know. _ ” Maine makes a noise that Washington recognizes as training laughter. “ _ That's why I got two. Keep it _ .” He stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and popping his back.

“Thanks. Wait, where are you going? Weren't we going to study?” Wash feels rather out of the loop right about now.

“ _ I have to walk Sigma. _ ” Maine looks so serious that Wash laughs.

“Of course, the puppy! Have fun.” Wash has mostly given up on trying to have normal conversations with Maine. Even before he lost his voice, he's always been... very Maine. 

Maine waves at him as he walks off, and Wash watches him leave, contemplating trying to study alone. To be honest, he doesn't really  _ need _ to study right now. Since the semester has basically just started, the coursework is fairly light and there aren't any big tests coming up. He could just... go to the dojang. And train. I mean, it certainly wouldn't  _ hurt _ . Wash grabs the crumpled up flyer and tries to smooth it out, with little success. The paper has clearly been in Maine’s pocket a long time, probably for a few days at least. Wash pulls his backpack off the back of the chair and unzips it, sticking the flyer between two notebooks. 

Wash stands up and slings his bag over his shoulders, turning towards the library exit. It's starting to get kind of crowded, anyway- the dark wooden tables surrounded by students and backpacks, papers and laptops fanning out in front of them. And while Washington doesn't really mind the crowd, he can't ever focus on his work when it's like this, the low buzz of whispering people too distracting for him. 

Washington pushes the glass door open and a rush of cold air hits him in the face. The sun has set, and stars are starting to peek out from the glow of the city where the fog is thin. He steps outside and takes a deep breath. Oddly enough, he always feels safest this time of day, when dusk is bleeding away into nighttime. Probably because everything bad seems to happen in daylight when he least expects it. 

“Okay, happy thoughts, Wash.” He starts heading in the direction of his car, parked not far from the entrance. The parking lot is already a lot fuller than he remembers it being from when he got here and it’s foggy as  _ shit _ , but he spots his small, grey car fairly easily and heads over to it. He definitely does not check the back seat when he gets in the car, but just in case anyone is wondering, nobody is there. Or inside the glove box. 

Wash turns his key in the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot, keeping a close eye on the sides of the car. This time of night a lot of people don’t look where they’re going, and they end up hitting pedestrians. The university campus is mostly empty though, which is kind of odd, although it  _ is _ Thursday. Wash watches the college signs and school buildings disappear and the restaurants and clothing stores take their place as he leaves the campus. The smooth, damp asphalt reflects the lights, and far-off businesses glow eerily in the fog, making it look like the city is made of ghost lights. Wash loves driving after school.

As he passes by a brightly lit building covered in red neon lights, he sees the stoplight ahead of him switch to yellow. He slows to a stop and stares down the alleyway to his right, brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the shadows. Are those  _ people _ ? The taller of two shadows strikes the smaller, more feminine shadow, and Wash’s blood drains from his face. He’s watching somebody get attacked. Glancing behind him for other cars, he pulls sharply to the side of the road and leans on his horn, startling the two people. The one who’d hit the other one picks something up from the ground and runs down the alley, disappearing into fog and shadow. Wash yanks his car into park and leaps out, entire body on guard. He runs towards the girl (?) who got attacked, skittering to a stop when he recognizes the dark, chiseled face and ponytail of dreads.

“Tucker?” Wash stares at Tucker with wide eyes, taking in his face. He’s got an obvious bruise blossoming above his left cheekbone, dark and angry looking even in the bad lighting. He looks dazed, and startled, but not scared, like someone just woke him up from a really good nap instead of attacking him in an alleyway.

“Wash?” Tucker squints at him. “What are you doing here?” His words are clear, thank goodness, and he seems steady on his feet. He is leaning against the wall, but not in a way that worries Washington.

“I was just driving by and I saw someone- you, I guess- getting attacked so I stopped.” Washington wants to put a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, but he doesn’t. “Are you okay?”

“No, I fucking lost like four hundred dollars to that jackass!” Some of the normal bright energy in Tucker’s eyes is back, and it’s clear that he’s not about to keel over. Wash feels his anxiety starting to lessen. 

“You could have lost a lot more.” Like his life, or his un-concussed state. Wash leans in to get a closer look at the bruise on Tucker’s cheek, which is swelling up and darkening, the skin tight and purple like a bloated water balloon. “And you need to get some ice on this. Did this guy have brass knuckles or something?! Jesus.” 

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Fucker hit me with his gun.” Wash takes a step back. 

“His gun.” He breathes out heavily. “Tucker, you could have  _ died. _ ” 

“Really? I had no idea.” Tucker does not look amused.

“Okay, fair enough.” Wash sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m driving you to the hospital. You seem fine enough now, but you could easily have a concussion.” 

“What?! Fuck no!” Tucker glances over his shoulder, like there might be somebody behind him, and lowers his voice. “I just lost like, half a week’s worth of money. I can’t  _ afford _ to go to the ER.” Wash pauses. He can see a desperate fear on Tucker's face, and even though he really should take him to the hospital anyway, he feels himself softening.

“Okay, fine, but I'm taking you to the dojang. Carolina's in med school, so she knows what she's doing.” Washington offers Tucker a hand, which he takes. Wash notes the way Tucker sways slightly, but he doesn't mention it.

“I gotta pick up Junior, Church watches him whenever he doesn't have school.” The urgency in Tucker's voice might have been more convincing if he wasn't leaving against the wall again.

“You're not driving after taking a hit like that.” Wash glances around. “Where is your car, anyway?” 

“I don't have one. How would I have gotten mugged in a car exactly?” Tucker has a point.

“I'll give you a ride. You're not walking, and I  _ know _ you don't have bus fare on you right now.” Washington pulls his keys out of his pocket. “We'll get Junior, make sure you don't have a concussion, and then I'll take you two home. Okay?”

Tucker opens his mouth like he's about to protest, but closes it and nods. Satisfied with that response, Wash turns towards his car and walks, gently tugging Tucker's hand. He glances back to make sure he hadn't misjudged Tucker's ability to walk, and sees the smaller man following easily, albeit with a frown. Wash clicks the unlock button on his car and walks over to the driver's side, getting inside with only a quick glance into the back seat. There's nobody there. Washington isn't surprised, and he doesn't check the glove box because Tucker opens the passenger door and slides into the seat, buckling himself in.

“Where does Church live?” Wash pulls out of the parking space carefully.

“Uh, over in East Hill...” Tucker looks away from Wash.

“You were walking.” Washington glances at Tucker disapprovingly. “To  _ East Hill _ .”

Tucker flails his arms. “Maybe?!” He looks at Wash and then back to his window, staring at the glass like it’ll answer for him. “Bus fare adds up over time, I like the walk, and I’ve done it plenty of times before with no problem.”

Wash squeezes the steering wheel and tries to keep his voice at a reasonable pitch. Tucker did just get attacked, after all. “So you were planning to walk five miles, in the dark, after working all day, through the center of city  _ including _ the nasty part of town.” Tucker’s lack of response answers for him. 

“Exactly how dire is your financial situation that you can’t afford  _ one dollar _ for the city bus?” Wash probably shouldn't be asking, but the words slip out in his frustration. 

“It's a lot worse now.” Tucker's voice is so quiet that Wash almost didn't hear it. Wash swallows and stares at the road ahead of him. Jeez.

“So, uh. What grade is Junior in?” Washington turns, and the car tilts slightly as they go uphill.

“First. He's doing really well, actually.” Tucker sounds more relaxed, pride in his voice. “He's way smarter than I was at his age.” 

Wash smiles. “It wouldn't shock me if he's smarter than you are now.”

“Yeah,  _ sure _ .” Wash can hear the eye roll and the smile in Tucker's voice, and something warm squirms in his chest. He chalks it up to the fact that they're talking about a kid. Everyone loves kids.

“Does he like school?” Washington remembers his own school days too well. He wasn't bullied, but he didn't have much in the way of friends aside from Maine and Connie.

“Yeah, he likes it enough. He's pretty big for his age so everyone wants him for sports and that stuff.” Tucker pauses and points to the right. “Turn here, then take the next left. Church's house is near the end of the road, the one with blue on it.” Wash turns the car, eyeing the expensive houses typical for this neighborhood. Evidently, Church is not separate from his family's finances.

“Is he in any sports?” Wash obviously values physical activity. He's on a martial arts scholarship, how could he  _ not _ ?

“Not yet, but he's starting soccer at the youth league once the season gets going. He wasn't old enough last year.” Tucker sighs. “He needs cleats. That's why I had so much money on me, I asked Cath for the past few days’ wages early instead of on payday so that we'd have enough time to go to a few different stores and get the perfect pair.”

Wash isn't sure what to say, and when he looks over to Tucker, it's too dark to see his expression. “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you didn't mug me.” Tucker stretches. “That's it, on your left.”   
Church's house isn't huge, and it's certainly not big compared to the other houses in East Hill, but it's still impressive for a college student. The two-story house sits on a small yard, even though they're in city limits, and it's beautifully built, grey and blue and white, with Victorian style architecture even though it's clearly fairly new. The lights are on, casting a warm glow onto the small oak tree in the yard and the short driveway. Two cars, one a small white car not unlike Wash’s and the other a horrendously filthy orange truck, are already parked, so Wash parks by the curb. He turns the car off and steps out into the street, taking a slow breath of the cold air. It's going to be an icy winter for certain if it's already like this.

Tucker heads towards the front door and Washington trails behind him, slightly nervous. What will Tucker's friends think of him? He's just some guy who Tucker knows from work, and he's dragging Tucker to the dojang when he insists he's fine.    
Tucker opens the door without knocking and shouts into the house as he walks in.

“Hey, Church! I'm here and I brought a friend!” A friend. Wash swallows. Is he Tucker's friend now?

Washington steps into the house after Tucker and stares at what he assumes is the living room. It's a disaster. Crayons, paper, empty water bottles, and plastic robots litter the ground, a sea of toys around an island of a grey couch and glass coffee table, which is scratched badly on the top. Wash sees his reflection in the large television and forces himself to look less lost. He  _ knew _ the Church family was loaded and that there's a small child in this house. None of this should be surprising.

A tall, muscular man about Wash’s age with a mop of curly brown hair and tan skin comes flying down the staircase on the other side of the room, stopping next to the couch and staring at Washington and Tucker with an open mouth.

“Hello!” He shouts, a wide smile filling his face. “Tucker, why is your face purple?”   
Wash glances over to see Tucker ghost his fingers over the swollen patch on his cheek.

“It's a bruise. Caboose, where is Church?” Tucker walks towards Caboose, and Wash follows, careful to avoid the toys on the floor.

“He is catching fireflies with Junior! I am not, because somebody was holding them too hard, and they did not like that.” Caboose pauses. “Somebody.”

“Great, thanks.” Tucker turns into another room. Wash tries not to stare at the kitchen  _ too  _ much, but it's kind of hard not to. And he thought  _ his _ kitchen was nice. He tears his gaze away from the ginormous kitchen and to the sliding glass door that Tucker’s just opened. As Tucker steps outside, something small and fast charges at him, wrapping its arms around his waist. Wash jumps a little, but relaxes when he recognizes Tucker’s son. 

“Oh, you’re early.” A guy that Wash assumes is Church walks over to them from the other side of the deck- a wide expanse of wooden porch with a few feet of concrete bordering a glowing pool in the center. Church, who must be filthy rich, has his father’s brown hair and eyes, but a softness to his face despite his scowl that reminds Wash of Carolina. 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ , what the hell happened to your face?” Church darts forwards and grabs Tucker’s chin, turning it so he can get a better look at the bruise. Wash forces himself to not tense up at the sudden movement, instead stepping to the right to give Tucker and Church more space. 

“Dude, chill.” Tucker swats Church’s hand away. “I just got mugged, not murdered.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Church throws his hands in the air. “ _ Just _ mugged. Let me fucking guess, it was in some shady alley between Cath’s and Union Street, wasn’t it? Because you were fucking  _ walking _ .” Church starts to pace in tight circles on the deck.

“How many times have I told you to take the fucking bus?” Wash is glad that he’s not the only one who feels this way. Tucker sighs and glares at Church

“Church, it costs-”

“Don’t you fucking start with that shit.” Church whips around to stare Tucker down. “I told you like, every single goddamn day last week, that if you need some money for bus fare, you just have to ask. It’s not a lot of money, and it’s not my money, so I don’t give a shit.” Church sighs and drags a hand through his hair, a long-suffering look on his face. “What I  _ do _ give a shit about is that you’re alive to come pick up your little devil spawn before he and Caboose drive me crazy.”

“Okay, fine.” Tucker’s voice is tinged with guilt. “I’ll take the bus next time, I get it!” Or he’s whining. Wash isn’t actually sure. 

“Good. Now, who’s this?” Church turns to look at Washington, and Wash awkwardly stares at the pool. 

“This is Wash, he gave me a ride over here after scaring off the jackass who punched me.” Wash does not miss how Tucker leaves the gun out of the story.    
Church stares at Washington, and when Wash steals a glance, Church looks mildly confused.

“Wash as in Washington?” Crap. He should say something.

“Yes. I’m David Washington.” Wash actually looks Church in the eye and sees that he’s raised one eyebrow.

“Wait, like from Carolina’s fighting stuff?” Church doesn’t sound angry or upset, just surprised.

“Yeah. I’m in the university’s tae kwon do group.” Strangely enough, Church doesn’t really react. From what Wash had heard from Carolina and how Tucker acted, he’d thought they were on much worse terms. 

“Huh. Cool.” He turns to Tucker. “So you met him at your new job?”

“Yeah, I did...” Tucker looks as confused as Wash feels. “Don’t you hate Carolina?”

Church furrows his brows and gives his head a little shake. “What? No. I hate my dad, not Carolina.” He gives Tucker and Wash a look. “Dude, I was the one who told you about the job. Did you think I missed the fact that my dad would be the one paying? Carolina is the contact on the job listing. How the fuck would I have not noticed that?”   
Wash watches and tries not to laugh as Tucker throws his hands up in the air. Wash remembers quite clearly that Tucker didn’t do such a good job of noticing that himself.

“I don’t know man! You never talk about her!” 

“What?! Yes, I do! Do you not listen to  _ anything _ I say?” Church’s voice is rising in pitch, and Tucker looks ready to argue, so Wash opens his mouth.

“Tucker, as much as I’d like to listen to you two argue all night, it’s getting kind of late.” Wash doesn’t know that for sure, but it is dark. Church gives him a look that he can’t quite place.

“Oh, yeah, sorry dude.” Tucker looks down, where Junior has had his arms firmly around his father’s waist throughout the whole conversation. “You ready, bud?” 

“Mmhmm” Junior makes a muffled noise that Tucker seems to take for a yes, because he carefully takes Junior’s hand and holds it in his own, taking a step back towards the door. Wash watches as Junior unlatches from his leg and follows Tucker into Church’s house. He follows suit, and Church closes the door behind them as they

all step inside.

“Well, I’ll see you guys around. Don’t get yourself mugged again.” Church turns to look at Wash. “And thanks for making sure this idiot didn’t get himself killed.” 

Wash blinks. “Uh yeah, no problem.” Wash thinks he sees a smile on Church’s face as he turns back towards Tucker and Junior, leaving the house and tugging the door shut behind him. They walk through the lawn to the car, feet crunching softly in the grass.

“Hey, Wash?” Tucker stops at the passenger side door and looks at Wash as he walks around to the other side of the car. “I know you wanted to take me to the dojang or whatever, but Junior’s really tired and when he gets like this-”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine.” Wash watches Tucker help Junior into the backseat of the car. “You seem okay, just be sure to ice it.” He pauses as he opens his door and hops inside. “And don’t get mugged again.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, sure, I’ll get right on that. No more muggings for me.” He and Wash buckle their seatbelts, and Wash turns the key in the ignition before looking into the backseat, mostly out of habit. Junior is leaning on the seat belt, half asleep, and Wash feels a soft smile form on his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed! 
> 
> I would also like to mention that's I'm aware how rude it is to ignore someone who's signing- if Maine wasn't mute, I'd have written that as Wash plugging his ears. 
> 
> See you guys next Monday!


	3. 3//september

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anxiety is like a lit fuse, crackling and burning through melting veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: "this is going to be a longer chapter!!!"
> 
> lol

“C’mon J, we gotta  _ go _ ,” Tucker whines, watching as Junior ties his shoes  _ very slowly. _ “I know you can tie your shoes faster than that; I see you do it every day. We’re going to be late.” 

Junior huffs. “I know, Dad!” He looks up and over at Tucker. “But Wash isn’t even here yet.” That’s true. Wash had  _ insisted  _ that he drive Junior to school and Tucker to the dojang, and Tucker had accepted his offer only a little begrudgingly. He  _ knows  _ Wash isn’t doing it out of pity. 

Tucker hears a knock at the door- a quick tap. He grins and gives Junior a triumphant look. “What was that about Wash not being here?”

Junior rolls his eyes and laces his other shoe in record speed, hopping up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder as Tucker opens the door. 

Wash looks... different. It’s something that Tucker can’t place, but standing there in a faded blue t-shirt and just-too-loose jeans, his hair slightly rumpled but still dirty blonde, his eyes fixed on Tucker, it’s different from last night. Tucker thinks it’s something to do with the dark circles under Washington’s eyes, almost-bruises that bleed into the freckles like paint spilled on a star map, but he’s not sure. 

“Hi.” Wash gives him a tired smile. “Sorry I’m late.” Tucker shakes himself out of whatever  _ that _ just was. Jesus, calling his freckles a  _ star map _ . What the fuck, Tucker?

“Don’t worry about it, it’s still earlier than the bus.” Tucker gives him a lopsided grin, then glances back to see Junior standing beside him. “You ready?”

Junior nods enthusiastically and Tucker looks back to Wash, nodding at the door. Wash turns around and steps back out onto the walkway, a small concrete balcony floating over the sidewalk below. Tucker follows him down the stairs, holding the railing tightly. The stairs are slick, steep concrete, coated in something slimy and green in some places and super fucking dangerous. Tucker always feels like he should kiss the ground when the stairs end, even though neither him nor Junior have ever fallen. 

“Hey, Junior?” Wash looks over his shoulder to Junior as he unlocks the car, moving towards the driver’s side. Tucker grabs the passenger door handle and slides inside.

“Yeah?” Junior buckles himself in without Tucker having to ask.

“Where do you go to school? I can get directions from my phone once I know which school.” Wash doesn’t speak down to Junior, doesn’t talk to him like he’s a baby. Tucker feels the corners of his lips turning up, pleased.

“Hawkins Elementary!” Junior chirps. “It’s the  _ best _ !” Tucker peeks back at Junior, who looks happy and snug in his black and teal jacket, the color almost the same shade as Tucker’s windbreaker. 

“Got it.” Tucker watches as Wash fiddles with his phone for a second, then sets it sideways on the dash. 

“Turn left onto Miller Street, then take Miller Street north for two miles,” a robotic female voice drones, startling Tucker a little bit even though he saw Wash turn it on. Almost as soon as the car turns onto Miller Street, Tucker sees the long line of cars behind the streetlights glowing red, seemingly miles away. He leans his head against the cool glass of the car window and sighs, his breath fogging in a little puff on the glass. Sliding his eyes shut, he wonders if he’ll be able to get a little shut eye before they get anywhere.

* * *

 

A gentle hand nudges his shoulder, shaking him softly. Tucker groans and bats at the hand, not opening his eyes. He’s so  _ tired _ . It’s gotta be like, way too fucking early.

“Tucker?” Wash’s voice is soft, hesitant. “We’re at the school. Junior’s school.” Tucker peels his eyes open and sees Wash, leaning against the center console of the car with his right arm on Tucker, his seat unbuckled and door open. Yawning, Tucker stretches as he unbuckles his own seatbelt, sliding forward a bit in the seat.

“Mmmhm, okay.” He couldn’t have been out  _ that _ long. The clock confirms his suspicion- he’s only been asleep about fifteen minutes. Tucker hops out of the car and looks around, his eyes finding Junior about five feet from the car, rocking back and forth on his feet impatiently.

“ _ Dad _ , soccer practice is in five minutes!” Junior whines, and Tucker chuckles as he walks over to him, arms spread. His son gives him a big, dramatic eye roll, but hugs him back, arms wrapping tightly around Tucker’s waist and fisting in the fabric of his jacket.

“Have a good day, buddy.” Tucker smiles and resists the urge to ruffle his hair.

“You too, Dad,” Junior mumbles into the fabric of his shirt. “We should get Wash to take us every day, so that you can say goodbye.” Something twists in Tucker's chest at that, something bitter and frustrated and regretful.

“Maybe.” Tucker leans down and kisses the top of Junior's head. “Bye. Be good to your teachers.” He pulls away reluctantly.

“Yeah, bye!” Junior waves at him and starts walking towards a green field where other kids are kicking around a bright orange soccer ball. Tucker lets his gaze linger for a second before stepping back into the car and shutting the door. He glances over to see that Wash is already sitting, patiently watching Tucker.

“Ready?” Wash turns the key in the ignition and Tucker nods. The sun is barely peeking through the fog, lighting up the school just right so that the light green tiles and weathered grey stone look neat and pretty instead of gloomy. Sighing, Tucker leans back in his seat. 

“So, how's your head?” When Tucker glances over, Wash is still watching the road, his hands firmly on the steering wheel but his eyes flickering over to Tucker.

“It hurts like a bitch, but I think it's better than last night.” He brushes his fingers against the knot on his cheek, hot and tender to the touch. 

Wash makes a thinking noise. “That's good. No nausea, dizziness?” Tucker rolls his eyes.

“I don't have a concussion, dude.” He's had them before, knows what they feel like. Although, he  _ was  _ kinda dizzy this morning, but only until he ate the crusts Junior left on his plate from his toast. Not concussion-dizzy, just hungry-dizzy.

“I just want to be sure.” Wash stops at a red light and looks at Tucker. “So. How attached to the bus are you?”

Tucker thinks he knows where this is going. “I don't like it, but it's the only option. Why?”

Wash smiles a little bit, and Tucker thinks that he probably doesn't even realize he is. “I could drive you and Junior every day. It's not a big deal, and I like Junior.” 

“That would be  _ awesome. _ ” Tucker gives Washington's arm a playful punch. “Thanks, man.” 

Wash grins at him. “No problem.” He turns right, honking at a car in the next lane. “ _ Red _ light, that means you  _ stop _ , not sort of slow down and get in my lane.” 

Tucker chuckles. “Didn't peg you for the road rage type.” 

“I'm not!” Wash protests. “That guy broke like, five laws just now; anyone would be mad!”

“Yeah, that was a pretty dick move.” Tucker looks at the side of the school from his window, the engineering building just barely blocking the sports and rec center from view. “I've never been in this parking lot before.”

“Really?” Wash turns into a space and switches off the engine. “Where does the bus drop you?” 

Tucker opens his door and steps out. “Over by the main office. It goes the other way around town, so I get dropped off before Junior.” And the bus ride is  _ ridiculously _ long when traffic is bad.

“Ah.” Wash hits a button on his keys and the car beeps. “I think Carolina should be here already.”

Tucker groans. “ _ Wash, _ I'm pretty sure I don't have a concussion.”

Wash gives him a sinister grin. “Oh, I know. I have something  _ else _ in mind.” He starts speed walking towards the rec center without giving Tucker a chance to reply to what he just said. Tucker has to almost jog to keep pace with him.

“That's like, really evil sounding.”

Wash laughs. “Is it?” 

Tucker groans. “Yes! And slow down, I'm shorter than you! My legs are  _ dying. _ ” 

Wash does slow down, but it doesn't make too much difference because they're already almost to the dojang entrance. They stop, and Tucker leans on his knees to catch his breath while Wash unlocks the door.

“You're really out of shape.” There's laughter in Wash’s voice, and Tucker looks up to see a mischievous look on his face.

“I'm just rocking the dad bod look.  _ All _ the chicks dig it.” Tucker waggles his eyebrows, grinning when Wash tips his head back and laughs.

“All of them?” Wash shakes his head, still smiling, and hold the door open for Tucker. “After you, ladies’ man.” 

Tucker walks into the dojang and is met with Carolina's gaze. She's wearing her uniform and waiting not far from the door, looking vaguely unhappy. Or just tired. Tucker's not sure. 

“Hey, boss,” Wash says, walking past Tucker and into the dojang, only pausing to yank his shoes off and carry them in his hands, walking on the foam padding in sock feet. 

“Boss?” Tucker looks to Wash for an explanation. Carolina’s  _ his  _ boss. Wash doesn’t even work here.

Wash ignores Tucker, still talking to Carolina. “See what I was talking about?”

Carolina tilts her head, a small smile creeping onto her lips. “I do.” Oh no. They’re up to something.

“What is going on?” Tucker knows his voice is all whiny and nervous, but he’s totally confused and pretty sure they’re talking about him.

“Wash told me about what happened last night, Tucker.” Carolina crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You know, it looks kind of bad when someone working for a tae kwon do studio gets beat up.”

Tucker frowns. “I didn’t get beat up! I only got hit  _ once, _ ” he protests. “And I work for the university, not-”

“And I’d been hoping to find someone for Wash to teach.” Carolina smiles, and Tucker furrows his brows.

“Wait, what?”

“To get to the next rank, Wash has to train someone to be a black belt. He’s qualified, but since this is a university dojang, everyone here is a black belt already.” Tucker puts the pieces together and sucks in a deep breath.

“No, uh, I can’t.” He bites his bottom lip, frowning. “I don’t have any time, and-”

Carolina shakes her head. “It’s part of your job to help out around the dojang. And the Director  _ really  _ wants Wash to move up in ranking.” 

Tucker stands there dumbly for a second, looking back and forth between Wash and Carolina. Carolina still has that almost-mischievous look on her face, while Wash just looks... really serious.

“Holy shit, you guys are for  _ real _ ?” Tucker sees Wash nod and that’s all he needs. “Whoa, okay, this is  _ awesome _ !” Tucker grins, resisting the urge to bounce up and down like a little kid.

“So you want to do it?” Wash has this hopeful, surprised look on his face that’s completely ridiculous.

“Fuck yeah! I  _ always  _ want to do it.” Tucker waggles his eyebrows. “Bow chicka wow wow!”

Wash face palms and groans. “Ugh, nevermind. I’m regretting this already.”

* * *

 

“Oh my god, Grif, you have to look at this.” Simmons stares at the TV, vision unfocusing. He knows that street. That’s only a few blocks away.

“What?” Simmons vaguely registers Grif moving in the background, feels his body heat as he comes to stand next to Simmons. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Simmons breathes. The news station isn’t showing the bodies, but it’s not pretty. The street is painted with blood and debris, rocks and stones knocked loose and laying on the asphalt next to what looks like a destroyed watch. The ambulances and fire trucks block the worst of it from view, but the thick clouds of black smoke and shouting in the background makes Simmons’s stomach turn.

“The Insurrection again?” Grif’s voice is low, quiet.

“Don’t call them that. They’re just... terrorists.” Simmons clenches his fists. “You know, that’s on our way to school. That’s a street we walk on  _ every day _ . What if we’d had classes today and left a little early? We’d be dead. Grif, we’d be-”

Grif’s hand comes to rest on Simmons’s shoulder. “Simmons, calm down.” His voice is level, solid. “We’re not dead.”

Simmons takes a slow breath and holds it in for a moment before replying. “Yeah. We’re not.” He looks to Grif, sees his face calm and blank.

“Yup.” Grif moves away, only to plop down on the couch. “So quit worrying about it like we are.” He props his feet up on the coffee table and sighs. “You’ll just make yourself cry.”

“I do  _ not  _ cry!” He feels heat rise to his face as Grif rolls his eyes.

“Really? Because I seem to recall in Sarge’s today you-”

“How would you know? You were asleep the whole class!” Simmons sits down next to Grif, no heat in either of their words. He doesn’t say anything as Grif grabs the TV remote and switches to some baking show. 

Grif makes a thinking noise. “You know, you should really make some of those sometime.” He gestures to the pink and white cupcakes on screen with the remote.

“What?” Simmons looks at him and raises a brow. “You  _ know  _ I can’t cook.”

Grif shrugs. “My birthday is next month.” Simmons knows this, even though Grif hasn’t mentioned it at all. He remembers from last year, when they got  _ spectacularly  _ wasted, and Simmons woke up on Grif’s bed covered in cheese whiz. He tries not to think about it.

“Yeah, I’ll learn how to make cupcakes in one month so your lazy ass can get even fatter? No way.” There’s no bite in the words though. Simmons knows Grif is just trying to give him something to think about that doesn’t involve death or bombs or blood.

Grif shoves him forward from his shoulder. “I learned a new skill for  _ your  _ birthday.” His arm stays behind Simmons, draped comfortably over his shoulders.

“Folding your own laundry does not count as a skill.” Simmons leans slightly into Grif, because he’s warm. 

“Uh, I also did the dishes without getting off of the couch, which was difficult.” Grif’s smile is audible in his words, but Simmons can’t see it because he’s leaning his head on Grif’s shoulder.

“I’m sure it was really hard for you. You deserve a medal,” he deadpans, letting his eyes slip shut.

“Are you going to sleep like this? Because that’s cool, but I want to get something to eat before you pass out and I can’t get back up.” Grif doesn’t sound like he’s annoyed, so Simmons just kinda grunts and scoots a little closer. “No for real dude, I didn’t have lunch.”

“Bullshit.” Simmons shifts and opens his eyes so that Grif can see him give the biggest eye roll of all time. “Get your stupid oreos.” 

“Ugh, we don’t have any.” Grif gets up, lumbering over to the kitchen. “Donut did the shopping, and he never gets me my...” Grif trails off and turns to Simmons, his eyes wide. “Donut.”

Simmons feels like his brain just came slamming to a halt, skidding across the pavement, smoking tires. “Donut.” He stares at Grif. “He went to class today.” They stare at each other for one more second before Simmons is scrambling to the remote, fumbling with the buttons. 

“-two confirmed dead, twenty injured with five in critical condition. Injuries are much lower than originally suspected. Some of the explosives did not detonate, and it appears the bomb was intended to collapse the apartment complex it was planted in.” The reporter stands in front of the scene, but a good distance from it. Her face is sympathetic and upset, clearly hurting for the people rushing about behind her.

“Ohmygod.” Simmons can barely breathe. “Grif, you gotta- gotta call him.”

Grif is already holding his phone to his ear. “Yeah.” He waits for a moment, then looks at Simmons. “Donut?” Simmons holds his breath. There’s noise on the other side of the line.

“Are you okay?” Grif sounds concerned. If Grif sounds concerned, Donut was probably in the explosion. Simmons wants to hide, but he watches Grif’s face carefully as Donut replies. His face softens, dark frown and furrowed brows melting into a relieved smile. “Me, worried? Nah. Simmons was shitting his pants though.”

“I was not!” Simmons is smiling though, even though he’s trying to be annoyed at Grif. He can’t manage it though.

“Yeah, sure.” Grif laughs at something Donut says. “Anyway, hurry up. Simmons is getting all clingy and weird with you gone.” Simmons makes an affronted noise, but waits until Grif hangs up to roll his eyes. 

“Says the guy who put his arm around my shoulder.” 

Grif gives him a  _ really fake  _ confused look. “What? I don’t think that happened, Simmons.”

* * *

 

“Oh my god, I’m regretting this already,” Tucker pants out as he flops down onto the dojang floor, relishing the cool foam tile against his hot skin.

“You’re so  _ whiny _ .” Wash crosses his arms in front of his chest and does not look sympathetic at  _ all _ . “It was just a few laps around the building.”

Tucker rolls onto his back and puts on hand across his forehead dramatically. “A  _ few _ ?! I’m like, 90% sure my legs are going to fall off.” He feels a foot nudge his side and sees Wash leaning over him, looking unimpressed.

“Get up. It’s not that bad.” He nudges Tucker with his foot again, and Tucker sits up, groaning. 

“You're a slave driver, Wash.” He still stands up though, even though his legs are shaky and he's covered in sweat. 

Wash rolls his eyes and puts one hand on his hip. “I'm sure you're really suffering. Start doing squats.”

Tucker groans, but does one. “How many?” His voice is whiny as hell, but at this point he really doesn't care.

Wash shrugs. “We'll see.” Yikes. Tucker is  _ not  _ going to like walking tomorrow. He does another squat, glaring at Wash the whole time. This  _ has _ to be done form of divine punishment. There's just no other way.

The door to the dojang squeaks as it opens, and Wash flinches, jumping about a foot in the air in surprise. He looks to Tucker, like he's checking to see if he saw that. Tucker definitely saw, but he doesn't say anything, and instead does another squat as a man with short brown hair and a scar over his left eye walks in carrying a white box. 

“Hey, Wash! Who's this?” The guy gestures to Tucker, who squints at him. He looks familiar. 

“That's Tucker. Carolina hired him to clean the sports center and to help out around the dojang. I'm training him.” Wash looks at Tucker, who's just standing there. “Did I say you could stop?” 

Tucker groans and does another squat, while the other guy laughs. “Poor guy. I'm York, nice to meet you.” He walks over to Tucker and extends a hand, which Tucker shakes. Up close, he can tell that the box is full of a variety of donuts, the scent of sugar and fried dough filling his nose. 

“Yeah, nice to meet you too.” Tucker glances warily at Wash, who does not seem that concerned with forcing him to do more squats right this very moment.

“So, who wants donuts?” York holds up the box and grins. Suddenly, Wash is  _ right next to  _ Tucker and York, clearly trying not to look interested. 

“Do you have the-” 

York cuts him off. “Yes, I have the chocolate glazed jelly ones. Who do you take me for?” York rolls his eyes and then looks over to Tucker. “I run a cafe-slash-bakery down the road, and he'd never tell you, but Wash has a massive sweet tooth.” 

“Really?” Tucker looks at Wash. “Cause he got me coffee with no sugar at all a few days ago.” Wash glares at Tucker.

“Sugar is bad for you,” he says as his gaze flickers back down to the donuts.

York laughs. “This is who you got coffee for? Nice.” He opens the box, and Wash takes a donut. “But Wash, isn't sugar bad for you?”

Wash freezes in the process of taking a massive bite from the donut. Chocolate glaze is clinging to his top lip, and he looks so offended that Tucker can't help but laugh. 

“Oh my god, you guys are ridiculous.” He grins at Wash. 

Wash swallows his bite and licks his lips, pink tongue swiping at sugary glaze. “Shouldn't you be doing squats.” He does not sound amused. 

York claps a hand on Wash’s back. “Lighten up, Wash!” He turns to Tucker, a playful smile on his face. “Want one?”

Tucker peers into the box. Pink, chocolaty brown, cream colored, sprinkled, powered, and glazed donuts stare back at him, some of them without holes and presumably filled with something.

“Uh...” He's not sure. He  _ is  _ hungry, but something feels strange about eating a donut when Junior is in class, probably ravenously awaiting lunch. 

“Aw, c'mon Tucker!” York is pouting at him. “I worked so hard on these. What do you like? There's cinnamon sugar, boston creme pie, raspberry or lemon jelly, strawberry glazed, chocolate glazed, vanilla glazed, chocolate glazed strawberry jelly for Wash, plain glazed for Carolina, sprinkles for South, apple jelly for North, powdered sugar and cream filling for Maine. I make the  _ best  _ donuts.” Well. Tucker feels his stomach rumble low in his abdomen, agreeing with York.

“I'll take a lemon jelly one then.” York hands him a round, glazed donut. “Thanks.” He stares at it, marvelling at the way the glaze has started to crystallize in places. The scent of sugar and fat and flour is stronger now that it's in his hands, and if he concentrates, he can smell a faint hint of lemon. Junior would love this. The kid's a big fan of fruit flavored stuff, especially lemon and orange.

“Tucker?” Wash sounds worried, and Tucker looks up to see the he and York are staring at him. “Are you alright?”

Tucker swallows. “Yeah. Just spaced out for a second.” He takes a small bite of the donut, rich buttery flavor exploding on his tongue, the pastry rich and yeasty. Everything has tasted so much better lately, and Tucker's pretty sure it's the universe's way of torturing him since he can't afford to eat as much as usual.

“Good?” York's grinning at him.

“Dude, this is like sex as a food.” Tucker takes another bite. “Thanks.”

York beams. “That's what I'm good for! Baked goods, and my amazing personality.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “I wouldn't go that far.” He's smiling though, and Tucker snickers around his donut. It  _ is  _ good, but he feels a little guilty eating it, like Junior will be able to smell sugar and lemon on his breath, the scent of betrayal. Even though he already knows the time, he makes a dramatic show of pulling out his phone and groaning. 

“Ugh, it's time for me to head over to Cath’s.” Tucker walks over to the entrance and sits down to put on his shoes, holding the rest of his donut in his mouth 

“Cath's? Like the restaurant?” York looks at him as he pulls out a chocolate donut.

“Mmmhm.” Tucker's trying his best not to let jelly ooze out of his mouth, but it's pretty hard. He laces his shoes up as quickly as possible, taking the donut out of his mouth so he can chew and swallow his bite.

“Hey, I'm there all the time! I'm obsessed with the chicken fried steak.” York grins. “Are you a waiter there?” 

Tucker nods. “Yeah, every day for the past two years. I knew you looked familiar.” He remembers now- York and friends (sometimes just York) in a booth, loose limbed and laughing on the red leather seats, eating mashed potatoes and fried food while Tucker or one of his co-workers brings them more beer. York, wiping his fingers on black and white checkered paper napkins, leaving a good tip and sometimes his wallet.

“Small world, isn't it?” York walks to the other side of the dojang, setting the box of donuts down on the coffee table.

“Yeah, really is.” Tucker stands up. “Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow.” He turns to leave, and his hand’s on the door when he hears Wash’s voice. 

“Tonight.” He looks over his shoulder, sees Wash still staring at him. “We're going to Cath's for a pre-tournament dinner.” Tucker pauses, then smiles.

“I'll make sure I cover your table. Bye.”

Wash smiles back at him. “See you later, Tucker.”

* * *

 

“Why the hell didn't you tell me earlier?!” Wash feels like his blood it's boiling, steam filling up his head.

North raises both hands in front of him. “Hey, relax. We knew you'd freak out, so-” 

“Only because it's an actual threat to our  _ lives _ !” The pressure in his head is building, and when it gets too full, he'll explode. 

North sighs, and York replies for him. “Wash, there's no immediate danger. The attacks are random, and nobody has been hit twice.” 

Wash groans and fists his hands in his hair. “Because of pure, dumb luck! They target  _ places,  _ places where people live and work and travel! The university is a prime target, and the student village is just as good. They have to know that, and it's only a matter of time before we stop being so lucky!” He starts pacing, back and forth across the dojang floor. “I went to four lectures today.  _ Any  _ of them could have had a bomb in them.”

York rolls his eyes. “But they didn't.” Wash just keeps pacing.

“Look, Wash, why don't York and I help you check your house for bombs tonight? You'll feel better after you've checked.” North's tone is soft and gentle, like he's talking to a wounded animal.

“I'm not a little kid who's afraid of a monster under his bed, North.” Wash grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Sorry.” Wash tries not to twitch when North sets a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop pacing. “You need to calm down though. Being this worked up wouldn't stop a bomb from going off even if there was one.” 

Wash breathes a shaky breath. “I know.” He feels fear shake and roll, like a choppy sea, in his stomach. “I'm not going to Cath's tonight. I can't.” 

York sighs. “Yeah, I figured.” He doesn't sound annoyed anymore, just regretful. 

North squeezes his shoulder. “Let's go and check your house. Maine said he's staying home too, so if something happens he'll be right down the street.”

Wash sighs. “Don't worry about it. Just... go to Cath's, have fun. I'll be fine.” He opens his eyes, sees York looking back at him.

“You sure?” The look on his face makes Wash wonder if he's a little anxious himself. 

Wash nods. “Next time, tell me  _ immediately. _ I don't care if you don't think it's a threat.” 

York runs a hand through his own hair, and Wash pulls his hands out of his. “Yeah, we will.” North nods in agreement.

Wash spins on his heels and walks towards the door, trying not to stare too long at the corners of the hallway. He should really start checking the news more often. He yanks the handle open, stepping out. It's unusually warm for this time of year.

“Try not to stress too much, Wash!” Yeah, that’s probably not happening. Wash lets the door shut behind him and walks quickly to his car, watching the space around him carefully. Thankfully, the parking lot is only populated with his car, North’s, and someone’s red truck. He leans down and peers underneath his car, sweeping his gaze on the unaltered underside before carefully inspecting the closest wheel to him. Nothing hidden in the hubcap. Moving around the car, he checks the other three wheels, and doesn’t find anything except for the blackish brown grime clinging to his car. He should really clean it sometime. 

Wash opens the driver’s side door carefully, making sure nothing is wedged in the door or behind the handle. He darts inside to press the button for engine access. The hood of his car pops open with a click, and he slams the driver’s door shut with a shaking hand. He stops for a second and takes a deep breath. If he doesn’t stay calm for this, he won’t be able to drive home safely and he does  _ not  _ want to have to get York or North to drive him. The hood of the car is hot from the sun when he opens it, and the insides of his car are untouched. He needs more windshield cleaning fluid, but that’s the closest thing to out of the ordinary.

Wash squeezes his eyes shut for a second, takes a deep breath, and opens the driver’s door again. He carefully examines the interior of the care for any obvious threats and deems it safe enough for him to reach his arm inside and open the center console. No bombs. Not under the driver’s seat, or behind the pedals, or nestled in the steering wheel, or in the glovebox either. Wash steps out and opens the back door, checking under the seats and in the cup holders, behind the handles and between the seat cushions. Can't be too careful- they said today's bomb had been in a potted plant outside the apartment building. 

Wash walks around to the back side of his car and opens the trunk. Aside from a few water bottles, it's completely empty. He feels himself relaxing. His car is safe, and he saw so with his own eyes. He can drive home. Wash walks back to the driver's side door, shutting the trunk and back passenger door as he goes. His shoes drag against the asphalt, and he collapses into the seat, closing the door behind him. He leans forward, resting his head on the steering wheel. 

It feels like his heart is trying to bust a hole in his ribs, trying to escape so that it can run away from all of this. Wash fists his hand in the fabric of his t-shirt and forces a long, shaky breath as he watches sweat and tears drip onto the floor of his car.

* * *

 

Tucker wipes his towel across the chrome surface of the table, catching french fry crumbs and ketchup drips. He gives his warped reflection a tired grin as he tucks the towel back into his apron and sets the basket holding salt, pepper, ketchup, and napkins back onto the center of the table. 

“Tucker! You’ve got a party of five in the back room,” his co-worker, Allison, calls to him.

“Thanks.” Tucker waves at her as he heads that way, reaching over to a pile of menus in the hallway and grabbing five. He’ll get utensils in a minute. Already, he can see York’s brown, fluffy hair and Carolina’s teal hoodie, and he’s searching for Wash’s blonde head. He’s almost to the table before he’s noticed; York sees him first, and waves.

“Hey, Tucker! Long time no see.” He gives Tucker a lopsided grin.

“Yeah man, what a coincidence!” Tucker winks. “Welcome to the Greasy Spoon. Can I get you guys something to drink?” He looks at them all. North looks exhausted and spectacularly annoyed at the girl sitting next to him- a blonde who looks like the female version of him, minus the purple ends on her short hair. York, squished up next to Carolina, and Tex, clearly trying to keep as much distance as possible between her and Carolina.

The blonde-slash-purple haired chick is the first to answer. “Do you do hard liquor?” Tucker approves.

“No, sorry. Just beer, soft drinks, lemonade, tea, water, and milkshakes.” Tucker watches her face fall into a scowl, and she doesn’t request anything

“I’ll get a peanut butter milkshake.” York smiles at Tucker, who whips out his notepad and scrawls down his request. Tucker looks at Carolina.

“I’ll have an Arnold Palmer, made with unsweet tea. Please.” She’s looking at her menu as she talks, so Tucker replies aloud.

“Sure thing. How about you, Tex?” She’s next in the circle, and she gives Tucker what seems to be a genuine smile.

“Just water for me.” She elbows North, who must not have been paying much attention, because he jumps a bit before relaxing again.

“I’ll get a coke. South will have water.” 

The girl next to him, presumably South, rolls her eyes. “Actually, I’ll have whatever beer is the most alcoholic. And a lemonade.” Tucker nods and writes it down.

“Alright, I’ll be right back with your drinks and utensils.” He glances at all of them one more time before turning around and walking back over to the wait staff station. He can’t help but glance around the room, searching for a familiar freckled face. Where is Wash? He said he’d be here tonight. Tucker looks at the table of martial artists. He  _ knows _ there’s more of them than that, even without Wash, and now that he looks closer, something seems off. York is smiling, but it seems forced. North looks like he’s a million miles away, and Carolina is biting her nails. Tex- the only one of them he knows well at this point- is texting furiously, a sure sign she’d rather be at home. Tucker sticks the drink order in the kitchen window and shouts to Cath inside.

“Peanut butter!” He turns around without waiting for a reply and takes a few cups out from under the counter, filling them with ice and the appropriate liquid. Tucker balances them on a round tray along with the utensils, and heads back over to their table.

“The milkshake will be right out.” He nods to York, who smiles at him as he sets utensils wrapped in napkins next to each one of them. He starts passing out the drinks to them.

“So, Wash couldn't make it tonight?” He can't stop himself. Yeah, it's not  _ really _ his business, but he can't help but wonder where Wash is. It's only been a few hours since he said he would be here tonight.

North smiles apologetically. “Sorry, Tucker. He wasn't feeling well.” Tucker nods, even though that doesn't make any sense because Wash was  _ fine  _ earlier today. At least he brought bus fare, just in case. Tucker considers making some kind of joke, but the mood at the table just isn't right. He turns around and walks away.

* * *

 

Tucker scrubs at his face with his hands, trying to rinse off some of the grime from his shift. Exhaustion clings to his shoulders and back like weights sewn into the bottom of his uniform shirt, and his muscles scream for him to sit down. He groans and wipes his face off with a scratchy paper towel, staring back at his reflection- red rimmed eyes, puffy cheeks, chapped lips. God, he's a mess. Working all day always does this to him, makes him tired and swollen and gross. The water heater for the apartment isn't working, but he doesn't care. He's gonna shower as soon as he gets home. 

Tucker pushes open the bathroom door and heads for the exit, waving to Allison as he leaves. Outside, it feels almost sticky, like someone just sneezed into the open space. The city smells like gasoline, smoke, and the salty odor of fried chicken. 

The bus stop is a block north of Cath's, so Tucker starts heading down the street, keeping to the well lit parts of the sidewalk and trying to look as alert as possible. He's not really scared, but he thinks it'd terrify Junior if he turned up with another awful bruise, especially only a couple of days after. Tucker even keeps a close eye on the cars that pass him, just because. He's almost to the bus stop when he sees a familiar, small, grey car, slowly driving towards Cath's place. Tucker squints, hoping to see blonde hair even though he knows it's unlikely. Wash is sick, there's no way he-

The window on the car rolls down as it slows to stop in front of Tucker. Wash frowns at him from the driver's seat. 

“What are you doing?” His voice is low, tired but not hoarse.

“Uh... Taking the bus?” Tucker shrugs, trying to contain his surprise. “I thought you weren't feeling well?” 

Wash blinks at him. “Did North say that? I'm fine.” The car unlocks, making a clicking sound. “Get in.” Tucker does, yanking the door open and closing it behind him. Wash’s car is  _ freezing _ , the air conditioning on full blast and the vents wide open. Tucker turns to Wash to say something, but then he sees him.

Tucker couldn't see it from the sidewalk, but Wash’s eyes are lined in red and black, like he hasn't slept in weeks and has cried instead. His skin is even paler than normal, and his bottom lip is bitten raw and red, open wounds scabbing slightly. Pale goosebumps cover his arms, and he's shaking slightly, just enough that Tucker isn't sure whether he's imagining it or not.

“Dude, are you okay? You look like shit.” He feels his brow furrowing.

“Thanks,” Wash replies dryly. “I'm fine.” He starts to drive forward, not looking at Tucker. 

“Are you sure? You really don't look-” 

“Yes, I'm sure.” Washington's voice is curt, sharp. Tucker doesn't comment, just turns to look out the windshield. He feels curiosity prickling in his lungs but doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to press. 

“Hey, can I have your phone number?” He keeps his voice light and casual, and he's rewarded with a confused look from Wash. “Since you give me a ride. If you ever can't pick me and Junior up, you could let me know.” 

Wash visibly relaxes. “Sure.” He recites his number for Tucker, who types it into his phone, the light from the screen spilling into the rest of the car. It's not completely dark outside yet, but it's getting close, the sun just a dull red roar between the buildings to the west. Tucker shuts off his phone, waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

“Are you still going to that tournament tomorrow?” Tucker doesn't let his voice be anything more than mildly curious, even though he's watching Wash closely put of the corner of his eye. 

“Yes.” Wash’s voice is stunted, like there's something in his throat. “I'm still going.” 

Tucker makes a little humming noise. “Well, if you've got any down time, feel free to text me. I get plenty of breaks at Cath's and with you guys gone I won't be doing a lot of work at the university. I'm going to be  _ so _ bored.” He doesn't want Wash to stew in his thoughts, thinking about what's bothering him all day. It seems wrong- Wash is strong, could probably kill Tucker in an instant. It's not right for him to be like this. 

Wash glances at him, and Tucker knows he's perfectly aware of Tucker's intentions. “Yeah, I could do that.” His voice is low, soft. “Most of the tournament is waiting anyway.”

“Sweet.” Tucker stuffs his phone back into his pocket and shivers. Damn, it's  _ cold  _ in here. “Wash, can you turn the AC down? It's freezing.” 

Wash reaches out and turns it off. He looks at Tucker for a second before turning his gaze back to the road. “Thanks,” he whispers, barely even there. Tucker doesn't reply, just nods and lets Wash drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot.... it Thickens
> 
> I'm pretty sure the quality of my writing is declining as this goes on... sorry guys. This fic will most likely end up being 10+ chapters, by the way. If you guys have any advice with regards to pacing of the story (am I going to fast with the plot, too slow, etc) let me know! I have zero clue what I'm doing


	4. 4//october

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trust is fickle and emotions are dumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how to summary??? make it edgy
> 
> Hey guys I found the longer chapter that I was missing last week :')

Tucker rips his toast in half, the bread crunching and crumbling, crumbs scattering across his plate. It's scratchy beneath his fingertips, soft and warm in the center, the familiar sweet smell crawling up his nose. He scoots the larger half onto Junior's plate, hoping his son won't notice.

Junior frowns. “Dad, I'm fine.” He's chewing his second piece of toast, butter smeared on his upper lip. “You haven't eaten anything yet.” 

“I'll get something later. You can't get snacks in the middle of school.” Tucker picks at the crust of his half slice, breaking off little pieces.

Junior pouts and grabs his discarded crusts, setting them on Tucker's plate. “But you said breakfast is the most important.” He takes a bite of the half slice. 

Tucker nibbles on the end of a crust, sweetness exploding on his tongue. “You got me there. I like the crusts best, so you can have the middle of my piece, okay?” He doesn't wait for a response, instead ripping the crust off of the half slice and putting the middle on Junior's plate.

Junior rolls his eyes. “The crusts are  _ gross. _ ” He shoves the bread into his mouth, muffling his voice. “Yeraweedo.” 

Tucker snorts. “Dude, I can't understand you with your mouth full.” Junior giggles, chewing and swallowing quickly.

“I said, you're a weirdo, Dad.” Junior smiles, bread stuck in his teeth.

“It must run in the family.” Tucker winks at him. “Make sure you brush your teeth before we go.” 

Junior rolls his eyes. “I brushed them last night!” He gets up anyways, headed for the tiny bathroom. Tucker eats one of the crust pieces and gets up, grabbing his and Junior’s plates. He walks over to the sink and stares blankly at his crusts for a moment. Maybe he should have them. Junior wouldn’t eat them anyways, he doesn’t like them, and Tucker’s so  _ hungry _ -

Tucker shakes his head and puts them into a clean tupperware, setting them aside as he puts their plates in the sink. He can crush them up for breadcrumbs, put that in meatloaf or something. Junior’s a growing boy, he needs the food a lot more than Tucker does. He forces himself not to think about how the crusts smell...

_~~like the inside of a bakery on a Sunday morning, loaves of bread lining the shelves. Tucker holds onto his mom’s hand tightly and she hands him a freshly baked roll while the lady at the counter smiles ~~ _

...and instead on moving towards the door and sliding on his shoes.

“I’m ready!” Junior comes bursting out of the bathroom like a speeding bullet, zooming over to Tucker. He plops down and starts to put on his cleats, fingers slipping on the laces in his excitement.

Tucker chuckles. “Excited for soccer?” 

Junior looks up at him. “I’m gonna beat Jonah  _ so hard _ ! He’s not even gonna know what hit him!” He stands up, stumbling a little.

“Don’t wreck him too badly.” Tucker reaches out, helps Junior get his balance. “He’s still on your team.” 

“I know! But he’s a jerk.” Junior doesn’t sound upset, but his smile isn’t quite reaching his ears.

“Is he being mean to you?” Tucker knows his voice is sharper, protective.

Junior’s pause says more than his words. “Kind of.” He looks up at Tucker and starts backtracking. “It’s nothing bad! He’s like that to everyone, not just me.”

Tucker sighs. “If anyone’s upsetting you, make sure to let me or Church know, okay? Sometimes people are just jerks, but some people are worse. You shouldn’t let anyone get you down, hurt you, or use you, okay?” 

Junior nods. “Okay, Dad. But Jonah just talks about how much better he is than everyone else all the time.” 

Tucker laughs, relieved. “Oh, there are a  _ lot  _ of people like that out there.” 

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. Tucker grins and opens it, revealing a very tired Wash. He still looks like he hasn’t slept in ages, dark rings of purple and blue under his eyes, his lips chapped and chewed, but he looks  _ much  _ better than Friday evening.

“Hey.” His voice is low and rough, and something Tucker can’t identify shifts in his gut.

“Long time no see.” Tucker grins at him and feels his smile stretch his face when Wash smiles back.

“Wash!” Junior all but launches himself at Wash’s leg, gripping on tight. “I missed you!” Tucker and Wash both jump, startled.

“Don’t jump on him, J.” Tucker looks up at Wash. “Sorry, he’s not normally-”

Wash shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” 

Junior looks at Wash, frowning. “How come you weren’t here yesterday or the day before?”

Wash rubs the back of his head. “I had a big competition on Saturday, and yesterday I was really busy with school.” He looks at Tucker, an unsaid apology in his eyes.

“Wash needed some time for other stuff, buddy.” Tucker puts on hand on Junior’s head gently, but talks to Wash next. “Church doesn’t have any classes on the weekends, so he drives us around normally anyways. Or he’ll get Donut to do it.” 

Wash seems to relax a bit. “I’m glad you didn’t have to take the bus.” He pauses and looks off to the side slightly. “Public transportation isn’t very safe right now.” 

Tucker frowns. What does  _ that _ mean? “Do you mean with the Insurrection?”

Wash stiffens, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall. “Yes. It’s well known that buses and trains are among their preferred targets.” Tucker’s tempted to ask about why Wash seems so bothered, but he doesn’t, not in front of Junior. It’s not really his business anyway. 

“Well, we really appreciate you driving us.” Tucker nudges Junior. “Right, J?” 

Junior nods into Wash’s jeans, and Tucker sees Wash smile. Junior slowly unlatches from Wash’s leg and stands in front of him, smiling. “Let’s go!” Wash turns around and heads back out the open door, and Tucker and Junior follow close behind. It’s darker than normal out, and when Tucker looks up, he can see the sky is cloaked in a fog so thick he could choke on it. 

“Jeez, is it supposed to storm today?” Tucker tears his gaze away from the sky to watch his step on the stairs, slick with dew.

Wash hums. “Probably. It is October, after all.” He waits on the sidewalk as Tucker and Junior finish climbing down the stairs. 

“Yeah, that’s a good point. I guess we’ve been lucky there haven’t been any big ones yet.” Tucker heads to the passenger side of Wash’s car, hopping inside. He watches as Wash hovers outside, peering in through the windows but not opening his door. “You alright?”

Wash blinks and opens his door. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He plops down into the passenger seat and shuts the door as he turns the key in the ignition, his car coming to life. Tucker breathes out, watching his breath fog slightly. 

“Isn’t it kind of cold for October though?” He doesn’t remember it having been like this until mid November last year. 

Wash shrugs as he pulls out of the parking space and onto the road. “I don’t think so. It was really warm yesterday.” 

Tucker snorts. “Dude, it was like, 70 or something. That’s not ‘really warm.’” Wash probably can’t see him making finger quotes, but Tucker does it anyway.

“Where are you from, anyway?” Wash glances at him briefly. “Somewhere warmer, I’m guessing.” 

“Mmhm. Church and I grew up together in Dallas. A whole bunch of us moved here together since everyone was going to this school.” Tucker doesn’t mention that he didn’t have the funds to go to the university.

“Wait, so is Texas actually from Texas?” Wash turns, and Tucker can see Junior’s school. 

“Yeah. Her parents fucking loved the place, so they changed their last name. Crazy, right?” Tucker is very tempted to ask if Wash is actually from Washington.

Wash chuckles. “That’s on another level. I thought the Dakotas had it bad.” 

“The Dakotas?” Tucker raises an eyebrow as Wash pulls into a parking space in the school parking lot. “Hold on a second.” He hops out of the car just as Junior gets out, an open book in his hands. 

“Dad, they just killed a dragon!” He closes the book and shoves it into his backpack, grinning. 

“Nice. You have a good day at school, okay?” He kisses the top of Junior’s head. 

Junior smiles. “Yeah! Love you, Dad.” He starts to head towards the soccer field.

“Love you too!” Tucker shouts after him, watching as his son joins the other kids. He sits back down in the passenger seat and buckles himself in. “So, the Dakotas?”

Wash backs out of the parking space. “Yeah, North and South. They’re twins, and their parents thought it’d be cute.” 

Tucker snorts. “Oh my god, that’s awful.” He watches Junior until they turn so that he’s blocked by a building. “Washington’s your last name, right?”

Wash nods. “Yeah, I’m David Washington. My dad has the same name, so I was always Wash growing up.” He gives Tucker a funny look. “Wait, what’s your last name?”

Tucker, suddenly uncomfortable, looks out the window aggressively. “It’s Tucker.”

Wash pauses for a second. “Don’t like your first name?”

“It never suited me.” Tucker plays with the end of one of his dreads. “I got it legally changed a few years back, but... it never stuck. Most of my friends go by their last names anyway.” 

Wash hums. “Makes sense.” He chuckles lightly. “Tex was questioning me like crazy on Saturday. I guess she didn’t realize until Friday night that we knew each other.” 

Tucker snorts, glad for the change of topic. “Really? I’m surprised Church didn’t say something.”

Wash nods. “Yeah, they seem to be talking or texting all the time.” He turns towards the university. “They’ve been together a long time, haven’t they?”

“Dude, like  _ forever. _ They were holding hands in the first fucking grade.” Tucker grins. “Oh my god, one time someone told Tex that she couldn’t play with them because she was a girl, and-” Tucker breaks off, laughing, “Church thought he’d like, beat them up or something, but-” He stops, laughing too hard to get the words out clearly.

“What?” Wash sounds curious and happy and it’s nice that he doesn’t seem sad. “What happened?”

“He got his skinny ass whooped and Tex had to fucking save him in the end.” Tucker snickers. “He was so embarrassed.”

Wash chuckles. “Sounds like Tex, that’s for sure.” He pauses. “Did she and Carolina...?”

Tucker nods. “Hate each other? I think so, yeah. Carolina’s a few years older, and when Church was really little she and her dad moved away, left him behind. I don’t know a lot about it.” Tucker looks over to Wash, thoughtful. “You must have met her sometime after that, right?”

Wash nods. “Yeah, junior high. We were in the same dojang, obviously not the university one back then, but still.”

“Here?” Tucker can’t imagine growing up here, with the fog and the cold and Wash.

“Not exactly. The suburbs, really.” Wash glances at Tucker. “My parents are pretty well off, so...”

Tucker nods, understanding. “So you two lived in the same fancy part of town.”

“Sort of. We weren’t in the same neighborhood or anything, but most of the kids in the dojang now are from this general area.” He pulls into the university parking lot. “Most people don’t move here from out of state since the cost of living is so high.”

“Yeah.” Tucker stares at the dark sky, watching it twist and swirl like dirty water mixed with clumsy hands. “It really is.” He unbuckles his seatbelt when Wash parks, suddenly wary of the sky above him. It could start raining at any moment. Wash seems to share his sentiment, getting out of the car even faster than he does. It’s colder outside than it was when they left, and Tucker sucks in an icy breath.

“Looks like we’re in for a bad one.” Wash starts towards the dojang, speed walking faster than Tucker can. 

“Yeah.” Tucker jogs after him. “Slow down there, zippy!” 

Wash laughs. “It’s good for you!”

* * *

 

“Grif! What the hell do you think you're doing?” Sarge's voice grates on Grif's ears and he twists so his arm blocks the sound better. He's face down on his desk, head nestled in his folded arms, cheek comfortably pressed into the fabric of his shirt

“Sarge, I'm taking a break,” he whines, the sound muffled. “I learn better this way.” 

Sarge huffs. “I never understood how you got into this school, anyway! This program takes dedication and energy. So get off your lazy ass and repair that motor!” Grif just groans in response.

“Um, professor?” Simmons is right next to Grif. “I've already-”

“Simmons, don't make excuses for him!” Simmons sighs, and Grif can’t help but smile into the desk. “Grif! Get up!” Sarge sounds closer, and Grif barely has time to jerk away before Sarge is tugging on the back of his shirt.

“Geez, quit it!” Grif flails. “I’m up!” He blows out a long breath of air. “I hate you guys. Both of you.”

Simmons’s face is already turning red. “I didn’t even do anything!” Except for Grif’s work, apparently. The motor they were supposed to be working on together is completely repaired, just kinda chilling on the desk. It’s also been painted maroon.

“Wow,” Grif says to himself. “I must have actually fallen asleep.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Dude, you sleep in class  _ every day _ .” 

“I do not!” Grif pretends to be a little offended. “I just pretend to sleep in class so that you do my work for me.” 

“Of course.” Simmons shakes his head. “What else.” 

Grif stretches in his chair. “So, what time is it, anyway?” The moment of silence from Simmons and Sarge that follows is eerie. “Guys?”

“... it’s eighteen hundred,” Sarge growls out.

Grif stands up, frowning. “Seriously, Simmons? You should have woke me up when I could go home!” 

Simmons rolls his eyes, big and dramatic. “Oh yeah, I should wake you up so you can go and be even lazier, but not when I need help on work. Right. That makes  _ soooo _ much sense!” Grif can tell from the flush in his cheeks that Simmons is actually upset, that he’s anxious.

“Whatever. Let’s go and get some dinner or something.” Grif heads towards the door. “Bye, Sarge.” He hears Simmons scrambling after him. 

“Wait, Grif!” Simmons starts walking beside him, frown on his pale face. “We’re eating with the guys tonight, remember?” 

“Yeah.” Grif shrugs. “We still have to walk this direction for the bus stop, right?”

Simmons sighs. “Yeah. I wish we could get a car.”

“Why?” Grif gives him a weird look. “We live on campus.”

“Barely.” Simmons kicks at the dirt. “I don’t know, with all of these attacks lately, and Tucker getting mugged I just...”

Grif snorts. “Dude, we’ll be fine.”

“You can’t just  _ say _ that! You don’t know!” Simmons flails his arms a little.

“Have they ever hit the same place twice?” Grif looks at Simmons, keeps his gaze steady and calm for his friend’s benefit. “And if we get mugged by some normal dude, I can just sit on him.” 

A laugh bubbles out of Simmons. “Yeah, you’re definitely fat enough for that to work.” 

“So don’t get your panties in a wad. We’ll be fine.” Grif stops at the bus stop, giving the metal bench a glance. It’s glistening with water, and Grif suddenly realizes that it’s a lot wetter outside than normal. “Hey, Simmons?”

“Yeah?” Simmons gives him a confused look.

“Did it rain while I was asleep?” The roadside is filled with puddles, little mirrors turned up to the sky.

“Well, yeah. Duh.” Simmons kicks a puddle on the sidewalk. “You slept through all of that thunder? For real?” 

Grif shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I did. Why, was it loud?” 

Simmons snorts. “Oh my god dude, you really were out cold.” He rolls his eyes. “I should have like, drawn a face on your dick.” Wait, what?

Grif bends over laughing. “Oh my god, Simmons.”

“N-no, fuck!” Simmons is cracking up, bright red and grinning wide. “I meant, like-” he breaks off, sniggering, “a dick on your face, not-”

“Now you wanna put a dick on my face?” Grif winks at Simmons. “At least buy me dinner first. Or a family sized pack of oreos.” He starts cracking up again.

“Grif, I swear to god.” The grin on Simmons’s face makes Grif feel warm and soft as the bus pulls up, the doors swinging open with a hiss.They step inside, and the stuffy/sweaty bus smell is striking. Oh, the joys of public transportation. Grif shuffles into a seat about halfway to the back of the bus, scooting into the window seat so that Simmons can sit next to him. The bus shudders, and pulls away from the bus stop.

* * *

 

“So, do you have any days off? At all?” Wash is the one holding the bag for once, the black leather a familiar weight against his shoulder. He watches as Tucker attempts a step-behind side kick, the motions there but with sloppy execution. 

Tucker shrugs. “Nah. Cath used to make me take off Sundays, but then this other girl quit so I took her Sunday shift.” He lines up for another kick.

“Make sure you turn your standing foot when you kick. Your hips have to turn over for you to have any kind of power.” Wash braces against the bag. “I’m sure Carolina would give you a day off if you wanted it.” 

Tucker kicks the bag, neater and stronger this time. “I don’t want it. More hours means more money.” He hops back to his fighting position.

“That’s true.” Wash takes a deep breath, almost yawning. “We’ve been at this for a while. Why don’t we take a break?” He’s sure Tucker could use a break- the other man looks tired, almost as tired as Wash feels. Working twelve hours a day can’t be easy.

“Getting tired, Wash?” Tucker grins at him, moving away from the bag and towards the little lounge area. “I thought you were supposed to have stamina.” From the way Tucker is waggling his eyebrows, that’s an innuendo.

“I do.” Wash ignores Tucker’s snicker. “In fact, I have enough stamina for us to both run some laps after this.”

Tucker groans as he plops down on a couch, throwing his head back. “Ugh, forget I said anything.” Wash sits down beside him, smiling a little himself. 

“What, you don’t have enough ‘stamina’ to do some cardio?” Wash feels his smile stretch his face as Tucker raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, I could do it all day.”

Tucker snorts, sitting up violently. “Oh my god, dude, did you just make a dirty joke?” He grins at Wash, and nudges him with an elbow, laughter in his eyes. “Bow chicka wow wow!” He leans back into the couch, still smiling. “I like you better like this.”

Wash frowns. “Like what?”

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t know, happy?” He shifts slightly. “The other day, and when we first met, you were just... dark or something. I like you better like this.” He looks at Wash, must see something in his eyes, because he nudges Wash again and smiles a little more. “That’s not an insult, Wash.”

Wash thinks for a moment, lets himself think about Friday night, when he went home and searched his whole house only to leave again to get Tucker. When he felt hot and prickly and like a thousand guns were trained on him. When Tucker gave him his phone number.

“I like me better like this too.” Wash lets himself relax again. He’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen in the dojang, not now. 

He jumps, startled, when the sound of a door opening echoes through the dojang. Tucker leans slightly over him, straining to see who opened it. 

“Hey, York!” Tucker waves one hand at York as he walks in.

“Hey, Tucker, Wash!” York smiles at them. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“What?” Tucker’s brow furrows, and Wash immediately checks his watch. 

“Tucker, it’s noon.” He tilts his watch so that Tucker can see it, and he jumps up like he’s been electrocuted.

“Aw, fuckberries! Cath is gonna be  _ pissed _ !” He skitters over to the door, grabbing his shoes but not putting them on. “Bye, Wash!” 

Wash stands up, taking a few steps in his direction, “Wait, Tucker, I can give you a ride-”

Tucker shakes his head. “Nah dude, I know you’ve got a class in ten. I’ll take the bus.” And like that, he’s gone. Wash plops back onto the couch, feeling like he has whiplash.

York chuckles. “Jeez. He’s a whirlwind.” He walks over to the couch and sits next to Wash. “You two get along.”

Wash looks at York, eyes narrowed. “Yes, we do. What are you trying to say?”

“Wash, chill.” York smiles and shakes his head. “I’m not trying to say anything. I’m just glad there’s somebody here to hang out with you.” York scuffs his shoe against the concrete floor. 

“I’m fine, York.” Wash looks at the floor, watches York’s yellow sneakers. “I don’t need to be watched.”

York sighs. “You know, I'm not actually trying to start an argument right now.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Wash rubs at his face. “I'm just kind of on edge right now.” He glances at York and sees him frowning and looking down at the floor.

“Yeah.” York's feet still.

“Are you okay?” Now that Wash looks at him more closely, York looks tired, almost sick.

York gives Wash a small smile that doesn't feel real. “I guess I'm kind of on edge too.” 

“Oh.” Wash’s throat is suddenly a little too dry. “Sorry, I didn't even think that you might-”

York shakes his head. “It's fine, Wash.” He gives Wash a pointed look. “I'm still taking care of myself.”

Wash knows that's York's way of saying that Wash  _ isn't. _ He could argue, but he's sure North could see him checking his house all night last night, hands in the cupboards and under the couch, the lights on because it's easier than sleeping. He's sure North told York; why else would they be having this conversation?

Wash leans his elbows on his knees, his face on his hands, watching York's sneakers. “I'm trying, York.”

* * *

 

“Hey, buddy!” Wash watches as Tucker swoops down and picks Junior up, hugging him for a second before setting him down gently. 

“Hi, Dad!” Junior scoots to the side enough for Wash and Tucker to walk inside Church’s house. The house is as messy as usual, but this time, Caboose is asleep on the couch. Wash notices a red flush on his back and shoulders, which are bare save for a blue and black beaded necklace.

“What’d you guys get up to today?” Tucker is eyeing the sleeping Caboose, and Wash realizes that Caboose is wearing swim trunks.

“We went to the waterpark!” Junior bounces on his heels. “Caboose got to go on the big slide but I couldn’t, ‘cause I’m too short.” 

Tucker grins. “Really? Did you thank Church for taking you guys?” 

Junior nods vigorously. “A million bajillion times!” His smile is contagious, and Wash feels a grin splitting his own face.

“Wait,” Tucker pauses. “Where is Church, anyway?”

Junior snickers. “Dad, he’s hiding.” He leans in and stage whispers to Wash and Tucker. “Hiding from the  _ sun _ .”

Wash feels a bit left out of the loop as Tucker’s eyes light up knowingly and he tilts his head back, cackling. 

“Oh my god, that’s fucking great!” He mimes wiping tears from his eyes. “Downright  _ amazing _ .”

Wash scowls. “What are you even talking about?”

“Okay, so,” Tucker turns to him. “Church burns  _ really easily _ . He’s gonna be like, a fucking lobster.”

Wash raises an eyebrow. “So he’s sunburnt.” This is not nearly as funny to Wash as it seems to be to Tucker.

“I bet he didn’t even wear sunscreen.” Tucker snickers. “His pasty white ass is gonna be so  _ wrecked _ .”

“Definitely,” Wash deadpans. 

“Here, let's go bring him some aloe vera or something.” Tucker takes Junior's hand and heads over to the stairs. Wash follows behind, still kind of confused. 

Wash is constantly impressed with Church's house. Not only is it  _ big _ , but it's really, really nice. The stairs are dark, polished wood along the sides, with fluffy white carpet down the center that makes Wash feel like he shouldn't be walking on it with shoes on. Upstairs, he can see two hallways on either side, and what looks to be a second living area. This one is much neater, no toys or garbage to be seen. The walls are a slate blue, and the armchair looks like it's never been sat in. The bean bag however, looks quite well used, a person-shaped indent in the blue fabric. Church must really like blue, Wash thinks. His house is full of it, and thinking back, he always seems to be wearing light blue too. Huh. Now that he thinks about it, Tucker's always in something teal, and Caboose always has something dark blue on. 

“What's with all the blue?” Wash whispers to Tucker, who looks at him and grins.

“We're the blue team.” Like that explains anything.

“What?” 

Tucker stops walking and turns to Wash. “Okay, so, you know how I moved here with friends?” 

Wash nods, not really getting the connection.

“We played paintball a lot in our hometown and when we were teenagers. Me, Church, and Caboose had blue paintballs, and Grif, Simmons, Donut, and Sarge had red ones. Tex and Kai were blue team when they played.” Tucker smiles. “It was a lot of fun.”

Wash smiles too. “Sounds like it. So you all moved here together? That's amazing.”

Tucker hums. “Yeah, except Kai, since she's still in high school. Sarge got a job at the school, and red team was like 'oh no, Sarge is leaving!!!’” Tucker makes a high pitched, squeaky voice, “and then we decided we'd go with them, because why not.” 

“Sarge got a job here?” Wash tilts his head.

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, he's like, forty.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Anyway, let's go and tease Church so that we can get home. I think Junior's tired.” Wash glances down to see Junior leaning against Tucker's leg and looking incredibly bored.

Wash chuckles. “Alright.”

* * *

 

“Hey, dad?” Junior sounds hesitant, like he's going to say something Tucker won't like. Tucker turns away from the dishes in the sink to look at him. 

“What's up, J?” He watches as Junior colors a picture of Caboose.

“Can I have a sleepover for my birthday?” Junior looks up at him with big eyes, and Tucker relaxes, thankful he's not asking for a dog again. 

“Sure. Who do you wanna have over?” Tucker leans against the counter, trying to remember who Junior's friends at school are.

Junior's face lights up. “Travis, and Katy, and Justin, and Leo, and José!” He pauses. “And Jonah, but only if he's nice to me all next week without me asking. And Caboose, and Grif, and Simmons, and you, and Church, and Tex, and Donut, and Sarge, and Wash. Church already said we could use his house!” 

Tucker laughs. “Sounds like you've already got it all worked out without me.” 

“Yeah!” Junior sets his crayon down and bangs his fist excitedly on the table. “All of the people from school are gonna leave at five and then the rest of us are gonna have a sleepover! Church said I had to ask you though, 'cause you're my dad and he's just a-” Junior pauses, before using finger quotes, “'glorified fucking babysitter.’” 

Tucker snorts. “Oh my god, Junior.”

“What? That's what he said!” Junior grins.

“Just don't swear at school.” Tucker shakes his head, still smiling. “Yeah, of course you can have a sleepover. Can you get everyone's parent's phone numbers? I'll let all of the adults know, but you gotta get some way for me to contact your school buddies.”

Junior nods vigorously. “Yes!! I'll ask  _ everyone _ !” He stands up, like he's gonna run to the school right away. “Thanks, Dad!” 

Tucker grins. “No problem. Just make sure Church knows how many people are coming and when.”

“Okay!” Junior dashes off, stopping in the doorway to their shared bedroom. “I'm gonna read.” 

“Alright, have fun.” Tucker watches Junior until he's out of sight, and then he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He pulls up Wash’s contact.

**Tucker** **_(7:23 p.m.)_ ** **:** hey are you free on the 24th

**Wash** **_(7:25 p.m.)_ ** **:** Yes. What's happening then?

**Tucker** **_(7:25 p.m.)_ ** **:** youre invited to a mega awesome sleepover at churchs place for juniors birthday

**Wash** **_(7:26 p.m.)_ ** **:** I'm invited to your six year old's party?

**Tucker** **_(7:27 p.m.)_ ** **:** yeah he really likes you plus all of blue team and red team is coming too

**Tucker** **_(7:27 p.m.)_ ** **:** and some kids from his school but they're not staying the night

**Wash** **_(7:27 p.m.)_ ** **:** I'm free. What time is it, and do you two need a ride?

**Tucker** **_(7:28 p.m.)_ ** **:** not totally sure on times but we did something like this for christmas last year and we all showed up at like two in the afternoon. ill take off caths on the 24th and the dojang on the 25th. i think church will get junior in the morning cuz its a saturday but i'll probably need a ride b4 and after

**Wash** **_(7:29 p.m.)_ ** **:** Okay, sounds good.

**Tucker** **_(7:29 p.m.)_ ** **:** thanks dude. 

**Wash** **_(7:29 p.m.)_ ** **:** Don't worry about it.

**Tucker** **_(7:38 p.m.)_ ** **:** so whatcha doing

**Wash** **_(7:38 p.m.)_ ** **:** Lying in bed, texting you.

**Tucker** **_(7:39 p.m.)_ ** **:** anything else ;)

**Wash** **_(7:39 p.m.)_ ** **:** Tucker, seriously?

**Tucker** **_(7:39 p.m.)_ ** **:** lol im just playing

**Wash** **_(7:40 p.m.)_ ** **:** No shit. What are you doing?

**Tucker** **_(7:40 p.m.)_ ** **:** pretending im done with the dishes and texting you

**Wash** **_(7:41 p.m.)_ ** **:** Nice.

**Wash** **_(7:41 p.m.)_ ** **:** My cat is trying to maul my foot because I’m wearing socks and they confuse him

**Tucker** **_(7:42 p.m.)_ ** **:** you have a cat??

**Wash** **_(7:42 p.m.)_ ** **:** I have three. Theta, who is trying to kill me, Epsilon, who is probably underneath the bed, and Delta, who is watching Theta and I.

**Tucker** **_(7:43 p.m.)_ ** **:** omg dude youre a crazy cat lady

**Wash** **_(7:43 p.m.)_ ** **:** For that to be true, I would have to be both crazy and a girl, neither of which are the case. 

**Tucker** **_(7:43 p.m.)_ ** **:** okay so then you’re a crazy cat nerd

**Wash** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** I thought I said I wasn’t crazy?

**Tucker** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** that’s what a crazy person would say

**Wash** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** Tucker really

**Tucker** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** dont worry wash im crazy too

**Tucker** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** crazy 4 you ;)

**Tucker** **_(7:44 p.m.)_ ** **:** bow chicka wow wow!!!!!!

**Wash** **_(7:46 p.m.)_ ** **:** If I was there in person, I’d kick you.

**Tucker** **_(7:46 p.m.)_ ** **:** i just cant resist pickup lines over text

**Tucker** **_(7:46 p.m.)_ ** **:** theyre too easy

**Wash** **_(7:47 p.m.)_ ** **:** Tucker, you make those jokes in real life too

**Tucker** **_(7:47 p.m.)_ ** **:** yeah i know

**Wash** **_(7:48 p.m.)_ ** **:** So at this party I’m going to meet the rest of the reds and the blues?

**Tucker** **_(7:48 p.m.)_ ** **:** yeah dude

**Tucker** **_(7:48 p.m.)_ ** **:** theyll love you dont worry

**Wash** **_(7:49 p.m.)_ ** **:** How many of you are there?

**Tucker** **_(7:49 p.m.)_ ** **:** uhhh well theres 5 on red team if you count lopez but idk if sarge is bringing him

**Tucker** **_(7:49 p.m.)_ ** **:** and theres 4 of us on the blue side since kai isnt here 

**Tucker** **_(7:50 p.m.)_ ** **:** 5 couting you, six counting junior

**Tucker** **_(7:50 p.m.)_ ** **:** counting*

**Wash** **_(7:51 p.m.)_ ** **:**  Wait, I’m blue team?

**Tucker** **_(7:51 p.m.)_ ** **:** uh well youre definitely not red team

**Wash** **_(7:51 p.m.)_ ** **:** Are Church and Caboose okay with that?

**Tucker** **_(7:52 p.m.)_ ** **:** well i mean i didnt send a blue team new member request form but they like you and that’s enough for me

**Wash** **_(7:52 p.m.)_ ** **:** Thanks, Tucker.

**Tucker** **_(7:52 p.m.)_ ** **:** omg youre actually touched arent you

**Tucker** **_(7:52 p.m.)_ ** **:** so melodramatic

**Wash** **_(7:53 p.m.)_ ** **:** Tucker, I swear to god.

* * *

 

Wash can't sleep. His eyes weigh heavy in his skull, burning like he's been staring at the sun. Might as well have been. His phone screen is bright and blue and soothing, even though it hurts. He can't sleep. 

The air feels thick, suffocating, like someone used a vacuum cleaner to take out the oxygen but left the dust and Wash feels it choking him, building up in his lungs, slowing the blood in his veins. He takes a deep breath. He can't panic, that's not going to help him get to sleep. He can breathe. He can breathe. 

But it's not easy. Wash tries to ignore how his throat wants to seize up and stop working, tries to stare at the words on his phone screen instead of how there could very well be someone hiding in his room, waiting. How he could wake up tomorrow and find his friends blown to bits, grisly gory wallpaper on their matching houses

_~~ A hole in Maine's neck, like a hungry mouth spitting blood, a crater where York's eye is supposed to be, and Wash’s brain crash landing in his skull ~~ _

But Wash is safe in his bed and Tucker  _ likes _ him and he's on blue team and he's  _ not _ going to die. He's not. He hits the call button, listens to his phone ring dully in the silence of his room. Tucker won't answer, shouldn't answer. It's three in the morning. 

A click. “Wash?” Tucker's voice is thick and heavy with sleep. 

Wash swallows. “I, uh.” This was a bad idea. He woke Tucker up, but he doesn't want to talk, can't talk. His throat is too full of dust, clinging to his soft insides and burning.

“Can't sleep?” Tucker sounds more awake, his voice clear and calm. Wash takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

“Don't worry about it.” Tucker pauses, like he's trying to work out the best thing to say. “Are you okay?” 

Wash answers automatically. “I'm fine.” His voice is too unsteady.

Static crackles on the phone. “You know, we're really going all out for Junior's birthday.”

Wash feels like he's missing something. “What?”

“Yeah.” Tucker clears his throat softly. “Donut said he's decorating the whole house like space. Junior really loves space, especially alien stories, you know. It's super fucking adorable.”

Wash feels the corners of his lips tugging upward slightly. “Yeah?” 

“Oh yeah. But he can't be an astronaut. I'd worry way too much.” Tucker sounds dead serious, and Wash is really smiling now.

“You'd go nuts.” His voice is still rough, like he'd swallowed sand. He should get some water.

“Yeah, definitely. Oh, and Grif said he'd bring an ice cream cake, which I'm assuming means he'll eat some ice cream while Simmons picks up an actual cake.” Tucker snorts. “Grif will probably eat that cake too.”

Wash chuckles, and it smolders low and warm in his throat. He swings his legs out of bed, sets his feet on solid, soft carpet. “Grif’s on the red team, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting you haven’t met them.” Wash can hear Tucker’s breathing, he realizes. It’s soft and calm. “So on the red team, there’s four guys. Sarge teaches robotics at the university, and Simmons and Grif are in the same year as you and Church. Simmons is a fucking nerd and kind of pathetic, but he works really hard. Grif is really fucking lazy. Oh, and there’s Donut, who’s just really really comfortable with his masculinity or some shit because he’s like the girliest guy I know. He’s in your year too.”

Wash makes a thinking noise as he stands up and heads towards the door, focusing on the phone conversation. “Are you guys all the same age then? Except Sarge, of course.”

“Except Caboose and Tex, yeah. Tex is a year older, and Caboose is a year younger.” Tucker pauses. “I’d be in my second year too, if I was in college.”

Wash realizes that means Tucker must have been fourteen when he had Junior, but he doesn’t comment on it. “So, does Caboose just... live with Church?”

“Yeah, they’re roommates. Caboose is an auto mechanic, really good at it too.” Wash can hear the smile in Tucker’s voice.

“Really?” Wash realizes a second too late that that probably sounds insensitive. He opens the door to his hallway, feet making soft noises on the carpet.

“Yeah!” Tucker thankfully doesn’t seem to take it in a bad way. “He’s obsessed with Lopez’s car, Sheila. He keeps trying to convince her to stay with him but-” Tucker breaks off laughing. “She’s a fucking car!”

“Who’s Lopez?” Wash steps into his kitchen, trying not to slip in his socks on the cool tile.

“Oh, he’s Sarge’s TA. It’s complicated.” Tucker yawns loudly as Wash runs the tap, filling a glass with water.

“Tired?” Wash takes a sip of water. “You can go to bed if you want.”

There’s a moment of silence before Tucker answers him. “You sure? I can keep talking if you’re still having trouble sleeping.”

Wash smiles. “I’m okay, Tucker. Thank you.”

“Yeah, dude.” Tucker sounds closer to the phone. “No problem. Call anytime, okay?”

Wash smiles, and something warm and sweet blossoms behind his ribcage. “Yeah. I will. You too, Tucker.”

* * *

“Wash, I’m dying.” Wash watches as Tucker flops down on the foam floor, sweat glistening on his skin.

“No, you’re not.” He sighs and nudges Tucker with his foot. “Get up. You still need to do your left leg.” 

Tucker groans and rolls away from Wash, completely laid out on the floor. “Nooooooo, my body can’t take it!” He’s smiling though, and Wash can tell he’s kidding.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not that bad, Tucker. It gets easier every time.” Tucker heaves himself up, making a big show out of wiping his brow and groaning- actually, no. He’s just straight up moaning. Wash sighs.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get this over with.” Tucker waves a hand at Wash, then hops into his fighting stance. Wash lifts the kicking pad he’s holding, bracing it against his arms and hip. 

“Go ahead. 20, as fast as you can without ruining your form.” Wash nods, and Tucker starts kicking the bag. His form is... alright, but there’s some power behind the kicks. Wash watches his jeans strain with each kick. Maybe he should get Tucker a uniform. It can’t be comfortable, working out in jeans that tight. 

About halfway through, Tucker freezes, his body tensing and his face slipping into a frown. He steps away from wash and visibly clenches his jaw, like he’s in pain. Wash feels adrenaline fill his veins. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Wash drops the pad and looks Tucker over, trying to find some sign of an injury. “Did you pull something?”

Tucker shakes his head. “No, uh, I’m fine.” He looks away, swallows. “Hey, can you do me a huge favor?”

Wash nods. He’s confused, worried. What’s  _ wrong _ ?

“I need you to take me to the nearest Walgreens, and to not ask any questions.” What? Wash shakes his head.

“Tucker, what’s going on?” Why does Tucker need to go to a Walgreens? Is he okay?

“Wash,  _ please _ .” It’s the little break in Tucker’s voice that convinces Wash, the way Tucker’s eyes are shiny all of the sudden and  _ holy shit.  _

“Yeah, uh, okay,” Wash fumbles with his hands. “I gotta go get my keys out of my pants.” Tucker nods, and Wash tries to pretend he doesn’t see him wiping his eyes as he turns away. His mind is reeling. Maybe it’s medicine? Tucker could take some medicine that he forgot to take. Or he’s hurt and he won’t tell Wash for some reason. He fishes his keys out of his jeans and jogs back over to Tucker, who’s waiting in the doorway to the outside, squirming. 

“Dude, c’mon.” He leads the way to Wash’s car, and Wash doesn’t think he’s gotten into his car so quickly in months. He doesn’t even glance at the back seat, just drives out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“Will a CVS work?” Wash looks over to Tucker. “It’s a lot closer than the Walgreens.” 

Tucker nods vigorously. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He’s barely even sitting on the seat, fixedly looking out the window. Wash turns the car to the right, and nods to the red building up ahead.

“There.” He’s technically speeding, but he closes the distance in record speed, thankful that the lunch hour rush hadn’t started yet. He’s hardly even parked when Tucker opens his door, letting cold air into the car. 

“Don’t follow me. Wait here. I’ll be quick.” And he slams the door. Wash stares for a moment, feeling like he needs to catch his breath. His head feels messy, sticky. Weren’t he and Tucker on good terms? Wash peeks through the windshield at the CVS. He can’t help but feel suspicion boiling inside of him, like dark, sinister liquid filling his mind and messing with him. What is it that Tucker needs to hide from Wash? For a moment, Wash thinks about terrorists and bombs and secret meetings, but then he shakes his head. No, not Tucker. Tucker has a kid who he’s throwing a birthday party for, Tucker moved here with friends even though he had to know it’d be tough. Tucker picked up the phone at three in the morning because Wash couldn’t sleep. 

Wash gets out of his car. He shouldn’t be doing this, Tucker asked him not to. But, he has to know. Tucker could be hurt. Wash inches towards the window and looks in. 

It’s clean and brightly lit inside, and Wash scans the white and red shelves for Tucker. He’s wearing... teal, probably. Wash stares, watching as an old lady buys cigarettes. She gives him a dirty look when she exits the store, clutching the box in gnarled fingers. Wash tears his eyes away, looks back through the dusty glass. 

He sees Tucker- he’s wearing a black shirt today, not teal- walk out of a section that he can’t read the sign on, a purple and pink box in his hands. Wash squints, trying to see what the box says. Tucker sets it on the checkout counter and Wash can read it, sees...

Pads. Tucker is buying pads. Wash stares blankly at him through the window. What. Wash watches as Tucker slides the cashier a few wrinkles dollar bills. The cashier turns to get him change, opening the register, and Wash stands there dumbfounded as Tucker turns and  _ sees him watching _ . A deep scowl takes over Tucker’s features like a cloud covering the sun. Wash ducks down, his heart racing in his throat. Fuck. Tucker’s going to be pissed. Correction: Tucker  _ is  _ pissed. Wash stands there, back pressed to the red painted stone wall for a few minutes, not really thinking, just kind of. Waiting. Tucker’s probably using the bathroom now, using what he just bought. Why did Wash think it was a good idea to spy on him? Jesus. 

The glass door swings open, and Wash sees Tucker’s hand on the handle before he sees the dark look on his face. 

“Tucker, I-”

“I can’t fucking  _ believe  _ you.” Tucker storms over to the car, opens the door and slams it behind him. Wash stares for a moment before scrambling over to the driver’s side door. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Wash shuts the door behind him, sticks the keys in the ignition. He looks over to his friend. “Tucker.”

“Exactly what part of ‘don’t follow me’ translates to ‘watch me through the window’ for you?” Tucker’s finger quotes are more like angry flailing, and Wash swallows, forcing himself not to look away from Tucker.

“I just... I didn’t know what was going on and you weren’t giving me an awful lot to work with.” He twists the key, starting the car, because he can see Tucker shivering in his t- shirt and jeans.

“Yeah, because I didn’t want you to find out like this!” Tucker throws his hands up. “I wanted to tell you like, I don’t know,  _ after  _ I knew how you’d react!” Tucker runs a hand through his hair.

Wash clears his throat. “I, uh. I don’t have a problem. With you.”

“With me being trans?” Tucker stares Wash dead in the eyes. 

“With you being trans.” Wash swallows. “Sorry. For spying on you through the window like a creep.”

Tucker laughs, even though he’s still tense. “Sorry for freaking you out, I guess.” He gives Wash a mischievous look. “Now you get to listen to me whining about how awful period cramps are.” 

Wash smiles. “Worse than running laps?”

Tucker tilts his head back and laughs. “ _ Way  _ worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) I'll edit the tags pretty soon here so they mention that Tucker is trans! I hope everyone enjoyed!
> 
> (also please leave feedback if you have the time! i'm very anxious about my writing and i've managed to convince myself that this fic is absolute Garbage and only getting worse sigh)


	5. 5//october

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's nothing like good food and good company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short ;-; I have been uh... not doing well lately. I'm trying to get this fic out anyways because it's relaxing to me, but my writing is awful when I'm upset. I was also super busy today, so the last scene is sorta cut short.

“Donut, I don't know about this...” Simmons fiddles with his sleeves, trying not to look too hard at his  _ very eager _ friend.

“Oh, come on! It'll be fun!” Donut leans forward across the table, his eyes sparkling.

Doc nods. “Yeah, and biting your nails is just  _ awful _ for you. I think it's a good idea.” He grins at Simmons, who is still pretty suspicious of this whole thing and would rather like it if his friends did not look so excited about this.

“Won't it look bad?” Simmons looks at his hands, chewed up nails surrounded by angry, swollen flesh. “I mean...” 

Donut rolls his eyes and holds his own hand in front of Simmons. “I do this _ every week _ . I'm not gonna mess it up!” Donut looks like a hand model. His nails are neatly trimmed, pale pink, and his ring fingers have tiny, chocolate sprinkle donuts painted on them. 

“But my nails are really short!” Simmons can't imagine walking around with pink nails. Everyone already thinks he's gay as is.

Donut makes a humming noise. “We can paint them clear, or a subtle color.” He looks at Simmons, smiling. “You  _ did  _ ask me to help you stop biting them.”

Simmons sighs. “Yeah, I know. Fine.” He feels heat rising to his face, and he shoves his hands forward. 

Donut’s smile widens, and he carefully takes Simmons's right hand. “You won't regret this. He leans to the side and searches around in his bag.

“So...” Doc’s talking to him. “How's school?” 

Simmons swallows. “It's okay.” He doesn't feel good. Why did he agree to this today?

“That's great! Grif was telling me all about your robotics class!” Doc rests his hand on his chin. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”

“He talks to you about school?” Simmons is dumbfounded. “He doesn't even pay attention.”

Doc shrugs. “Mostly he was talking about you, actually.” 

“Wait, what?” Simmons shakes his head. “Grif talks about me?” 

Donut’s cool hand holds his. “Simmons, Grif talks about you all the time!” He starts painting clear nail polish onto one of Simmons’s nails. 

Doc nods. “Yeah, he does.” 

“So,” Simmons says, trying to sound like he doesn't care. “What does he say about me?” 

“Hmmm.” Doc drums his fingers in the table top. “Well, mostly it's him calling you a kissass and taking about how you're always waking him up from naps.” Simmons feels his heart sinking.

“Oh.” He looks down, watches Donut finish his right hand and shift to his left. 

“But he also talks a lot about how smart you are.” Simmons looks back at Doc, sees him smiling still. “And how all you do is clean and study, how he'd never be able to do that.”

“Yeah, right,” Simmons scoffs. “I don't think Grif is even capable of saying nice things about me.” 

“But you two really like each other, don't you?” Doc's face looks totally innocent, but Simmons catches Donut throwing him a warning glance.

Simmons struggles to pick his words. “I'm...” He cleared his throat. “We're friends.”

Doc shrugs. “Sure. Me and Donut are friends too.” Simmons knows what he's implying. Grif is  _ not  _ his boyfriend.

“I'm not gay!” Simmons feels himself tensing up. “Why does everyone think I'm gay?” 

Donut laughs. “All done.” He looks between Simmons and Doc. “Why don't we go grab something to eat? I could go for some hot meat right about now!” 

“ _ Donut _ .” Simmons rolls his eyes, even though he knows that was for his benefit. 

“Food sounds good!” Doc stands up and stretches. “Isn’t there a cafe by the school? We should eat there!”

Simmons finds himself nodding. “Sounds good.” He stands up and looks at his hands. The nail polish is clear, but his nails looks shinier than normal and he can smell the nail polish.

“They’re probably not dry yet, so be careful.” Donut nudges him with his elbow as they walk towards the door. 

“You really think this’ll help?” Simmons tilts his hand, watching the light reflect off of the polish.

“Well, it tastes pretty bad. I certainly wouldn’t want to stick it in my mouth!” Donut grins. “You’ll have long, beautiful nails in no time, Simmons.” 

Simmons smiles back at Donut. “Thanks.”

* * *

 

Tucker leans up against the window of the car, watching as Junior runs off. It’s colder outside than it’s been in a while, and the glass feels like ice. His breath clouds his view.

“You okay?” Wash sets a hand on his shoulder, and he jerks in surprise. Wash yanks his hand back, looking apologetic.

“Yeah, sorry.” Tucker straightens up. “I’m just tired.” He yawns, not on purpose, and rubs his eyes. 

Wash hums. “Alright. How’s planning for the party going?”

“Dude, it just keeps getting bigger.” Tucker grins. “Now there’s going to be  _ two  _ cakes, and Church agreed to let Caboose and Donut decorate.”

Wash lays on the horn, startling Tucker. “Turn signals are  _ not  _ optional! Seriously!”

Tucker laughs. “Road rage. Really, Wash?” He snickers.

“Not  _ normally _ , but that-” He makes a frustrated noise. “Did you even  _ see  _ what he did?! How is he allowed on the road?!” The pitch of his voice climbs higher, and Tucker can’t help but start cracking up again.

“Oh, man, being in the car with you is great.” Tucker feels his smile tugging up into the corners of his eyes. “It’s like endless, free entertainment.” 

Wash rolls his eyes. “Sure, Tucker.” He turns the wheel into the parking lot by the sports and rec center. “You won’t be laughing when you’re doing squats.”

Tucker groans. “Ugh, I was hoping you’d forget.” 

“Forget this?” Tucker can hear the smile in Wash’s voice. “Never.” He pulls into a parking spot and stops the car. Tucker hops out of the car and  _ whoa _ , okay, maybe he should have done that a little slower. His vision swims, black creeping in around the edges, and he leans against the side of the car slightly. Just as Wash comes into view, it fades, and Tucker walks towards the door like nothing happened. Maybe he’s dehydrated?

“I’ve actually got something for you,” Wash says, holding the door open for Tucker.

“Really? What is it? Is it porn?” Tucker walks backwards into the dojang, grinning at Wash, who rolls his eyes.

“No. Follow me.” Wash brushes past Tucker as he moves to walk ahead of him, going in the direction of the changing rooms. Tucker follows close behind, curious. 

Wash throws back the curtain in front of the changing room, revealing... a changing room, with Wash’s uniform on a bench. Tucker gives Wash what must be an unimpressed look, because Wash rolls his eyes.

“I know it’s stupid, but I figured you needed one.” Wash picks up the uniform and hands it to Tucker.

“Wait, is this for me?” Tucker realizes that this is  _ not  _ Wash’s uniform. Wash’s uniform has a tiny brown stain on the left arm because he got a nosebleed at a tournament and a drop landed there. Wash’s uniform has colorful patches sewn into the sleeves. This uniform is plain and clean, very white and obviously unused.

Tucker clears his throat. “Wow. Thanks, Wash.”

Wash shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll need it to actually get a higher rank than white belt, and I was getting tired of you bitching about how hard it is to work out in street clothes.” He’s smiling, and Tucker finds himself smiling too. 

Tucker holds the uniform for a second, unfolding it and feeling the thick, strong fabric against the palm of his hands. “I guess I should get changed, huh?” 

“Yeah. I should too.” Wash reaches past Tucker, under the bench, and pulls out his actual uniform. He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, and uh,  _ wow _ . Tucker can’t help but stare. Wash is  _ built _ . His whole torso is lean and muscular, not in the way that makes him look like a bodybuilder, but the tight, subtle kind of muscle that looks deadly. Freckles dust over his chest and hips, and Tucker can see the top of his briefs, a grey strip of fabric rising just above his jeans. 

Wash chuckles. “Like what you see?” Tucker looks at his face and sees an amused grin and both eyebrows waggling. Tucker laughs too, dragging his gaze away from Wash’s body.

“You betcha. Hey, Wash.” He sheds his jacket. “Are you a tamale? Because you’re hot. Bow chicka wow wow!”

Wash groans. “Tucker, that wasn’t even funny.” He tugs his jeans down, and Tucker puts 100% of his effort into  _ not  _ looking at Wash’s crotch. Checking your friend out? Fine. Staring at his dick? Probably not a good idea. Tucker takes his own shirt off, leaving his binder on.

“Am I gonna get abs like that if I actually do the exercise you tell me to?” Tucker looks at Wash’s face, only to see that Wash is staring at his body. Uh. What. Tucker looks down to his stomach, which isn’t built by any means, but it’s not weird or... oh. Wash is probably staring at the thick, raised scar in a line under his belly button.

Wash looks away abruptly. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to stare, I just...”

Tucker shrugs. “It’s cool, man. I had to get a c-section with Junior.” That, and he’d been on the verge of death for a few days, but Tucker doesn’t mind one bit. Junior would have been worth losing his arms and his legs.

“Oh. Okay.” Wash clears his throat. “And yes, you will get abs if you work out enough. You’re certainly lean enough.” He glances at Tucker one more time as he pulls the uniform bottoms up over his hips.

Tucker sheds his jeans, kicking them off of his ankles. “Really?” He glances down at himself. Compared to Wash, he’s basically the pillsbury dough boy. Although, compared to Grif he’s probably a supermodel.

“Yes, Tucker.” Wash rolls his eyes, evidently thinking he’s just fishing. “You’re a tamale.” He pauses for a moment as he realizes what he just said. “Fuck! I mean, you’re hot, not-”

Tucker laughs. “I got it. I’m  _ smokin’ _ .” He winks at Wash, who just laughs and rolls his eyes again. 

“Alright, put your pants on.” Wash slides on his uniform top, tying the sides without even looking. “I'll help you with the top and the belt since they're kind of complicated.

* * *

 

Tucker sits down at Church's dining table, exhausted. He slumps forward onto the table and groans into his arms. 

“Tucker, really?” Church sounds annoyed.

“'m tired.” Tucker doesn't pick his head up.

“Yes, great. You're supposed to be watching the pasta while I cut up some vegetables. How the fuck do you plan on watching the pasta when you're face down on my table, getting sweat all over it?” Angry chopping noises follow, and Tucker is suddenly reminded of the fact that Church is holding a knife. He sits up and leans back in his chair, peering into the kitchen. The pasta is boiling just fine.

“The pasta is fine, Church.” He gets up anyway. “And I'm not sweaty.”

“Right. And I'm not pissed off.” Church is chopping something green and probably disgusting. Zucchini? It looks like a cucumber, but Tucker doesn't think cucumbers go in pasta.

“Why can't we just order pizza again?” Tucker picks up a wooden spoon and gives the pasta a stir. It swirls around in the starchy water, bubbling away.

Church sighs, very loudly. “ _ Because,  _ Simmons and Tex complain that all we eat is greasy shit, Donut really likes pasta, and Caboose refuses to eat the same thing two days in a row and we had pizza for lunch yesterday.”

Tucker pulls a noodle out and smooshes it between the spoon and the napkin. Nope, still not cooked.

“Tex is coming?” He gives the pasta a stir.

“Yes.” The sound of running water startles Tucker, but it's just Church rinsing off the cutting board in the sink. Tucker is about to make some comment about Tex and banging, when both the timer Church set for the pasta and the doorbell go off at the same time. Tucker starts towards the door, but stops when Church points the fucking knife at him.

“You, pasta. I'll get the door.” Church sets the knife down without a second glance at Tucker and dashes off towards the front of the house. Tucker sighs, shrugs, and grabs the colander, sticking it in the sink before slipping on two oven mitts. He dumps the pot of boiling water and presumably cooked pasta into the colander, leaning back to avoid the rising steam.

“Hey, guys.” Ah, it’s Grif and probably the rest of red team. 

“Get inside already. You’re letting all of the warm air out.” There’s a pause, some mumbling, and then the door slams shut. Tucker sets the now empty pot on a cool part of the stove and walks out of the kitchen. Grif, Simmons, Donut, and Sarge are spreading out into the living room, sitting down on the couch and chairs. 

“Hey, Tucker!” Donut grins at him. “How’re you?”

Tucker smiles back. “I’m good. How’s red team?”

“Better than you blues!” Sarge shouts back, and Tucker doesn’t even have to look at Church to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Tucker, get your ass back in the kitchen. You’re still helping me.” Church storms off and Tucker sighs.

“Jeez. Who crapped in his cornflakes?” Grif gives Tucker a somewhat sympathetic look from where he’s sprawled out on the couch. 

Tucker shrugs. “Dude, I don’t even know. I think he and Tex might be having an argument.” 

“I can hear you assholes!” Church shouts from the kitchen. 

Tucker groans. “I better go help him before he starts throwing shit at me. Not that he’d actually hit.” Tucker turns around and marches into the kitchen, glaring at Church. 

“Stir the vegetables.” Church points at a pan he must have put on the stove while Tucker wasn’t there.

“Seriously, Church, what is up with you today?” Tucker’s voice comes out a little harsher than he meant, but this is Church. Leaning over the pan, Tucker stirs the vegetables as they sizzle quietly.

Church sighs. “Please, stir the vegetables.” His voice is softer, almost apologetic. “I have a fucking awful headache, okay?” 

Tucker looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “You good?” 

Church rolls his eyes. “No, I’m literally on the verge of death as we speak. Just shut up and watch the vegetables. They’ll only take a second.” He’s mixing some stuff together, presumably as some sort of a dressing for the pasta. It looks like oil and herbs from here, but Tucker doesn’t really know. The whole kitchen smells amazing, like an italian restaurant, rich herbs and fried onions. Tucker almost forgot how good Church is at cooking, how he used to cook him and Tucker dinner every day after school, before Tucker walked home and brought his mom leftovers. His favorite thing to make was always chicken soup, rich, salty, and full of rosemary. The first non baby food Junior ever ate was chicken soup with soft, boiled-to-hell carrots and celery.

“Those are probably done.” Church is behind Tucker, and he starts a little, blinking out of his daydream.

“Oh. Okay.” Tucker moves aside, letting Church take the vegetables and dump them onto the pasta, which is now in a large serving dish. Church stirs the bowl with a pair of tongs, twisting it until it looks evenly mixed.

“Alright, dinner is ready!” Church sets the tongs down and moves over to the sink, turning on the tap. “Aren’t you going to get some?” He’s staring at Tucker, who’s just standing there and watching.

Tucker gives himself a little shake. “Sure. Yeah. Later.” He’s not hungry. His stomach feels like a cold, dead snake in his abdomen, and he’s too tired to think about eating, even though it smells amazing. 

The red team walk in, followed by Caboose and Tex, who Tucker hadn’t noticed come in. “Where’s the drinks?” She looks at Church expectantly.

“In the fridge.” Church wipes his hands on his shirt, and Tucker realizes someone’s missing.

“Hey, Caboose?” Tucker taps the taller man’s shoulder.

“Yes, Tucker?” Caboose turns around to face him.

“Where’s Junior?” Tucker glances behind him, to see if Junior’s just in the living room. 

“Oh, we were drawing! He...” Caboose pauses. “He told someone to tell you that he was putting stuff away. Someone forgot to tell you.” 

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Caboose. I’ll get him a bowl.” Tucker grabs a paper bowl from the stack, snatching it right before Grif reaches for it.

“Hey!” Grif glares at him.

Tucker rolls his eyes, again. “It’s for my kid.” He waits as Church dumps a tongful of pasta into his own bowl, then fills the bowl up for Junior. It looks nice, bright and colorful with vegetables and speckled with herbs and spices. Smells good too.

“There’s parmesan on the table.” Church gestures towards the dining table before walking over there himself, with Tucker trailing behind. Tucker copies him, waiting for him to sprinkle cheese on his bowl before putting around the same amount on Junior’s. Tucker walks past the table, to the foot of the stairs.

“Hey, Junior!” He shouts, looking up to see if he can see his son. “Church made pasta and it smells really nice! I got you a bowl.” He hears some rustling.

“Coming, Dad!” Junior replies, and Tucker hears a flurry of footsteps before Junior appears at the top of the stairs.

“I’m putting it on the table, okay? You’re between me and Caboose.” Tucker turns and walks back to the dining room, setting the bowl down next the Caboose. He doesn’t have to worry about saving his seat, because presumably everyone else in the room heard him, and he heads into the kitchen for silverware. Simmons and Donut are still getting food, and Sarge shutting the fridge, beer in hand. Tucker pulls out three plastic forks and hands one to Simmons and one to Donut.

“Thanks, Tucker!” Donut grins at him, and Simmons just smiles and nods. 

“No problem.” Tucker grabs a plastic cup too, and fills it with tap water before heading back to the table. Junior is already in his spot, grinning gap toothed at Tucker. He grabs a noodle with his hand and sticks it in his mouth.

Tucker gives him what he hopes is a very unimpressed look, and shoves the fork in his bowl. “Utensils, J. They exist.”

Junior just giggles because he’s a rebellious little nerd, and Tucker sits next to him with a sigh. 

“So, guys.” Simmons swallows his mouthful of pasta. “Guess what I found?” 

“Hmm?” Thankfully, Donut does not open his mouth to reply. Tucker takes a big gulp of his water. Huh. He’s really thirsty.

“Over by Walmart, you know how there was that big empty building? They’re making it into a lazer tag place.” Simmons smiles. “They do party reservations, and they’re opening in a month.”

Sarge, sitting between Simmons and Donut, straightens up and smiles. “That is an excellent find, Simmons! We’ll be able to remind these dirty blues of our supremacy!” He claps Simmons on the back just as Simmons is taking a bite of his pasta. The paler man chokes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and giving Sarge a dirty look. 

“That sounds fun,” Tex says. Tucker glances to the other side of the table, where she’s sitting next to a very annoyed looking Church. “Do you think they’d let us do teams?”

Simmons nods. “Oh, I know they will. Their website talked about all the different options.” Tucker drains the rest of his glass of water, and his stomach turns over, like it wants more. He feels like it’s a vacuum below his ribs.

He stands up, glass in hand. “I’ll be right back.” He turns toward the kitchen when he hears another chair slide across the floor.

“Me too.” That’s Grif. “Time for seconds.” 

Simmons groans audibly. “Already? Fatass.” Tucker just keeps walking, with the sound of Grif’s footsteps behind him. The sounds of conversation dull slightly as he reaches the sink, turning on the tap and filling his glass.

“Hey, Tucker?” Tucker turns to look, seeing Grif leaning against the counter and watching him. His bowl sits on the counter, forgotten. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Uh, sure. What’s up?” He sets his glass down, sensing that this could take a little while.

Grif looks him dead in the eyes. “Are you okay, man?” 

“What?” Whatever Tucker had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Grif gives him a skeptical look. “Right. I noticed you haven’t been eating at group dinners.”

Tucker frowns. “I take some home and eat it later, you know-”

“But do you actually eat it?” Grif cuts him off, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Or do you give it to Junior?”

Tucker doesn’t answer, just looks at the tile floor.

Grif sighs. “Look, I get it. Times are tough. I know where you’re coming from, me and Kai didn’t always... Things get crazy.” Grif clears his throat. “But you don’t need to skip meals, dude. Just talk to one of us, or something. None of the rest of us are in dire straits, and a few of us have some cash to spare. We’re not gonna let you and Junior starve.”

Tucker looks at him, and immediately regrets it because he can feel hot tears prickling the edges of his eyes. He swallows, shifts. “Thanks, but I-”

“Tucker, if you’re about to say you couldn’t take our money, I’m going to slap you. Just putting that out there.” Grif sighs.

“Yeah. I, uh. Could probably use some money.” Tucker looks back to the tile, which is still there. Kinda dirty, too. That’s probably Junior’s fault, or Caboose’s.

Grif nods and smiles a little. “There. I’ll talk to Simmons and Donut, they’re both on full rides, and Sarge is probably making the big bucks on his robot shit. You’re gonna be fine, Tucker.”

Tucker smiles weakly. “Thanks, Grif.”

Grif just shrugs. “It’s what I do, man. Now,” he gestures towards the bowl of pasta, “you should probably get something to eat. Now, not ‘later.’” He makes air quotes.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yes, mom. I should tell Simmons about this, he’ll-”

“Oh don’t you  _ dare _ .” Grif growls.

Tucker chuckles and steps across the kitchen, snagging a paper bowl. “I really should.” He fills his bowl halfway, then pauses glancing at Grif, who is watching him expectantly. Tucker fills the bowl the rest of the way.

“Take care of yourself, man.” Grif claps him on the shoulder as he walks back out into the dining room.

Church perks up when he walks in with a bowl. “Finally decided you were good enough to eat with us mortals?”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got hungry enough to eat your shit cooking.” He sits down, feeling a little embarrassed because it feels like  _ everyone  _ is looking at him. Glancing at his friends, he notes that it’s just Simmons and Donut. Cool. He takes a bite of the pasta.

It’s  _ so fucking good _ . Tucker doesn’t know if it’s Church’s cooking or the fact that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch, but the pasta is sweet, the vegetables tender and flavorful, the herbs and spice bright. He can taste olive oil, basil, oregano- jesus, Church should be on masterchef or some shit. Tilting his head back, he moans.

“Actually, take that back. Church, please cook every single time.” He shoves another forkful in his mouth.

“You wish.” Church rolls his eyes, but Tucker can see a faint smile on his lips, the glint of pride in his eyes. Tucker sticks another bite in his mouth, even though he hasn’t swallowed the other one yet. It’s just  _ so good _ .

“Isn’t it great?” Donut grins at him. “I just love that feeling of a full mouth!” The blonde eats what looks like his last bite of pasta, still smiling.

“Donut,” Simmons groans. “Why do you  _ do  _ that?”

“Do what?” Donut replies as he stands up, winking. “I’m getting seconds!”

Simmons stands up, rolling his eyes. “I’ll go too. Grif is probably eating straight from the bowl.” He follows Donut into the kitchen, and Tucker watches them go as he chews his pasta. His chest feels warm, and he smiles.

* * *

 

Tucker steps into Wash’s car, grinning.

“Is that what I think it is?” He stares into the back seat, a childish happiness filling him up.

Wash nods. “Yep, that’s Delta. He had to go get shots today.” Tucker reaches towards him, before moving his hand away.

“Wait, is he the friendly one?” He gives the cat a wary look. Wash has three cats, and he talks about them all the time, but...

Wash shakes his head. “He’s fine. Epsilon’s the grouchy one.” As if to prove it to Tucker, Wash reaches back towards the black and white cat, who just sits unfazed as Wash pats his head.

Tucker reaches back too, and he touches Delta lightly on the back. He’s silky, soft, and warm. Tucker settles into his seat while he pets Delta twice, before twisting around so he can get buckled.

“How was work?” Wash starts the car, not looking at Tucker.

Tucker grimaces. “Busy. Cath is a slave driver, seriously.” He sighs. “I got good tips though.”

Wash throws him a sympathetic glance before turning to watch the road. “I really wish you could take a day off, Tucker.”

Tucker sighs. “You know I can’t.”

“I know.” Wash pauses. “But I wish you could. You look tired.”

Tucker laughs darkly. “I  _ am  _ tired.” And he is. It’s seeping into his bones, and every morning he’s still tired from the night before, like a heavy fog clinging to his limbs.

Wash doesn’t reply for a minute, just driving silently through the night. Tucker realizes he’d tensed up, and he forces himself to relax a little bit. Wash is just trying to be nice. 

“Hey, Wash?” Tucker isn’t even sure what he’s going to say.

“What?” Wash flicks on his brights, and Tucker is suddenly very aware that they’re not on their normal route.

“Why are we going this way?” He glances around, trying to find a sign he recognizes.

“Shortcut.” Wash swallows visibly. “Not a shortcut. It’s just the back way to the east side of town.”

Tucker takes a moment to look Wash over. He sees now what he didn’t when he first got in the car, too distracted by the cat and his own situation. Wash looks awful- his eyes are ringed with dark almost-bruised rings, his lip chewed up and inflamed, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking.

“Are you okay?” Tucker bites his lip. “Did something happen?” He feels selfish, now, for being curt with Wash earlier. 

Wash shakes his head. “I’m fine, Tucker.” Clearly, he’s not.

“Bullshit.” Wash looks at him briefly, hopefully long enough to see Tucker’s best you-better-tell-me-what’s-up look. “Something’s wrong.”

Wash sighs and pulls the car over, stopping it just before it goes off the shoulder and into the long grass. He shifts it into park and sets his head on the steering wheel. In the dim light from Wash’s headlights, Tucker can barely make out his eyes, open and staring straight down.

“There was another attack today. By the Insurrection.” Wash doesn’t explain further, but his eyes squeeze shut and Tucker can feel the emotion rolling off of him in waves.

“Oh.” Tucker runs a hand through his dreads. “Was it someone you knew?” 

Wash shakes his head. “No. No, it wasn’t. Not this time.” Tucker’s not really sure if Wash means he expects his friends to be attacked by terrorists, or if it’s already happened, and he’s afraid to ask. He knows Simmons gets almost as nervous over this stuff, and Simmons hasn’t been attacked, but Tucker can see shiny pink scars on the back of Wash’s neck, puckered and warped like crumpled tissue paper. Something bitter knots up in his belly as Tucker realizes Wash is starting to hyperventilate.

“Wash? Wash.” Tucker swallows. “Take some deep breaths, alright? Slow breaths.” He knows people with anxiety problems, but it doesn’t make him feel any more qualified to be helping Wash calm down. Thankfully, Wash listens to him, loud, slow breaths filling the space of the car.

“Sorry.” Wash’s voice is hoarse with unshed tears.

“Don’t worry about it.” Tucker catches his eye as he sits up. “I should probably drive, huh?”

“What?” Wash’s brow furrows. “I’m  _ fine _ .”

Tucker nods. “Right. Look dude, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. This is scary stuff.” He makes sure to keep his voice completely serious. He doesn’t want Wash to think he’s making fun of him. “I just think I should probably drive. I’m paranoid about safe driving, it’s a dad thing.”

Wash chuckles, a smile quirking up on his lips. “A dad thing?”

Tucker nods. “Yup. As soon as Junior was born, I developed a need for vehicle safety. It happens to all dads.”

“Right.” Wash rolls his eyes, but he unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door. The car’s inside lights turn on, and Tucker blinks in the yellow light. Wash still looks like shit, but at least there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. Tucker copies him, getting out of the car and moving over to the driver’s side.

“You’re gonna have to give me directions. I don’t know your weird back road route.” Tucker sits down, the seat strangely warm from Wash sitting in it. If Tucker’s seat seemed cold to Wash, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“When was the last time you drove a car, again?” Wash buckles himself in, one eyebrow raised.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Like, last night? I took Church’s car and got everyone beer.” Warm, gross beer. But still beer.

“Fine. Just keep on this road until the light, then turn left.” Wash settles in as Tucker starts to drive, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark asphalt in front of them. There’s a silence, uncomfortable and unusual between them, and Tucker’s not sure why. Wash is upset, but they’ve had conversations while one of them was upset before with no problems. Tucker feels lost. He has no idea what to say.

Almost like he’s sensing the mood, Delta slinks forward, climbing between Tucker and Wash and onto Wash’s lap. A surprised squeak spills out of Wash, and Tucker finds himself smiling. 

“He’s sneaky, huh?” Tucker flashes them a glance. “Junior keeps asking for a cat, but we’re not allowed any  in the apartment.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tucker can see Wash pet Delta slowly.

“That’s awful.” He still seems tense, but like he’s rapidly calming down. “I like cats.”

Tucker laughs. “Really? I’d hope so, given that you have three.” He spots the light up ahead, glowing red even though he’s the only one on the road.

“You and Junior should come over sometime.” Wash sounds like he’s smiling. “Since he likes cats.” 

“Seriously?” Tucker looks at Wash, who nods. “Dude, that’d rock. Junior would  _ love  _ that.” 

“And you wouldn’t?” There’s a playful tone in Wash’s voice. 

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Wash, you know I’d love to party at your place.” 

“Tonight?” Wash sounds like he’s asking Tucker for a favor, and Tucker realizes that maybe Wash is still scared. 

“Why not?” Tucker grins. “Junior doesn’t have school tomorrow since it’s the weekend.” 

Wash seems to relax some but not entirely. “Thanks, Tucker.”

Tucker smiles. “Dude, you’re the one inviting me over.” He pauses, a wave of protectiveness washing over him. “And I’m not trying to saying you  _ have  _ to, or that you  _ need  _ to, but if you want to talk about.... stuff, I’ll listen.”

Wash nods, and Tucker can see him smiling slightly and softly. The silence that fills the car after that is peaceful, almost pleasant, and even though Wash is still tense and alert, Tucker is confident he feels better than before.

* * *

 

Wash is not sure why he thought this would be a good idea. He’s not really listening as Tucker asks Junior about his day, instead scratching Delta under his furry chin and questioning his own sanity. Sure, Tucker and Junior would love the cats. But it’s not like they could stay the night or even that he and Tucker would be alone at any point. Wash hasn’t got himself someone to talk to, he’s got himself a social situation he has to pretend to be okay through so that he doesn’t scare Tucker’s son. 

He really should have thought this through more, but he’s spending about half of his brainpower on not thinking about the fact that  _ another  _ bus stop had been bombed. The places the Insurrection bombs are smart, too smart- never  _ just  _ bus stops, but the ones on busy, public sidewalks, where people just walking by could get hurt, where

~~_ York tilts his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing past Wash’s ears as he laughs too, the sun bright on their faces and hot on the top of Wash’s head _ ~~

people who weren’t even taking the bus could  _ die _ . Wash shakes his head, trying to dislodge the memories. Now is not the time.

“Wash?” Tucker’s voice startles him, and he glances over. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Wash gives Tucker a smile that’s probably not very convincing judging by how Tucker just raises an eyebrow. 

“Wash!” Junior pipes up from the back seat. “Are you ready for the party?”

Wash twists so that he can see Junior better, forces a better smile. “Yeah. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”

Junior nods furiously. “There’s going to be cake and ice cream and tiny sandwiches. So don’t be sad.” Wash blinks, surprised. “You can’t be sad when there’s going to be tiny sandwiches, that’s dumb.”

Wash laughs. “What kind of sandwiches?”

Junior rolls his eyes. “ _ Tiny  _ ones. Duh.” Wash gives Tucker a quizzical look.

“Junior likes them. It’s Tex’s special recipe, or something, but they’re probably just normal turkey and cheese sandwiches cut into quarters.” Tucker shakes his head, smiling.

“Dad!” Junior sounds affronted. “They’re  _ way _ better than normal turkey and cheese!”

“Sure, right.” Tucker sounds so sarcastic that Wash almost laughs. “Definitely, J.”

“Ugh, Dad. I’m gonna eat yours.” Junior rolls his eyes again, but this time it’s so dramatic his whole head practically rolls with them. It’s adorable, and it reminds Wash of Tucker so much that his chest feels warm.

Tucker laughs. “That’s fine. It’s your birthday anyways, who am I to tell you no?” That makes Junior quite pleased,evidently, because he grins big and puffs himself up. 

“I’m gonna be king for a whole  _ week _ .” Junior looks to Wash. “Dad said I could stay up a whole hour later  _ every _ night.”

Tucker makes an affronted noise. “Uh, no. I said  _ half  _ an hour, and only on Friday and Saturday. You still need your sleep, even for your birthday week.”

Junior frowns, and Wash laughs. “I’m sure you’ll still have plenty of fun even if you can’t stay up late. You can do more stuff during the daytime anyway.”

Junior squints at him. “What? I don’t believe you.”

Wash smiles. “Well, it’s bright outside, so you can see better.”

“No fireflies in the daytime.” Junior sticks his tongue out at Wash.

“You got me there.” Wash tilts his head towards Tucker. “He’s a mastermind Tucker. I can’t win against his powers.” 

Junior giggles. “I’m like the Flash!”

Tucker laughs and shakes his head. “The Flash is super fast, Junior. I think the smart ones are supposed to be like, Batman and Iron Man.” 

“The Flash is best ‘cause he gets places before anyone else, so he can solve the problem before stupid Iron Man is even  _ there _ .” Junior narrows his eyes at his dad. “You just don’t like the Flash because he wears red.”

“What?!” Tucker gives Wash a look like  _ can you believe this?  _ “So does Iron Man!”

Junior points a finger at Tucker. “Ha! You didn’t deny it!” 

“What? That’s not how things work!” Tucker glances at Wash. “Hey, I got to the main university road, like you said. Which way now?”

“Keep going until you the second lab, the blue one, and then turn right.” Wash gestures up ahead at the blue painted building just barely visible, illuminated by the many, many lights on campus. The whole school seems to glow and hum with energy, and even after sunset, the grounds are crawling with students.

“Is your place on campus?” Tucker stops at an intersection to let some skateboarding people pass.

“Not technically. It’s a student living area partnered with the university, though.” Wash hums. “It’s nice.”

“Does your house have a big television?” Junior’s leaning on the back of his seat, eyes wide and excited.

Wash smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t know if it counts as big, but I have a TV in the living room.” The living room. He hasn’t been in there in days, too intimidated by the size and complexity of the room, all of the little nooks and crannies that something could be hidden in. Every day he doesn’t go in, it gets worse. There’s just been that much more time for someone to have snuck in, to have-

“How many cats do you have? Is it just Delta?” Junior is now staring intently at Delta, and Wash carefully lifts the cat, passing him to Junior.

“He doesn’t bite or scratch unless you startle him.” Junior takes the cat with wide eyes and gentle hands. “I have three, actually. Theta and Epsilon. Theta’s nice but he play bites, and Epsilon is...” Wash grimaces. “Epsilon is mean.”

Junior frowns at him. “Is he gonna bite me?”

Wash shakes his head. “No, he’ll probably just hide the whole time actually. He’d scratch if you chased him, but he’s just really flighty. They’re all rescues.”

Junior smiles at him. “You rescued them? That’s so cool!”

Wash blinks. “Well, I got them from the shelter, but I didn’t personally-”

“That’s  _ so cool _ .” Junior cuts him off, eyes sparkling. “Dad, Wash is a cat superhero!”

Tucker snorts. “Cat man?”

“Cat man!” Junior smiles wide, and Wash can see that he’s missing some of his baby teeth. “Wash is cat man! So much better than Batman or Iron man.” 

“Thanks, Junior.” Wash points to Tucker’s left. “That one’s mine, with the dead rosebush.”

Tucker nods, and pulls Wash’s car into the driveway. “Nice place.” It is nice, Wash thinks. The house itself is white and sandstone colored, with a dark brown roof and lots of big windows. The garden that came with the place is mostly dead, but Wash has managed to keep one of the potted plants alive, and his yard is raked, watered, and mowed thanks to North.

“Thanks.” Wash hops out of the car when Tucker stops it, feeling strange not driving to his own house. They head to the door, Tucker glancing around without any subtlety at all, and Wash desperately hoping Tucker doesn’t notice him carefully scanning the path and the garden as he approaches the door. He sticks his key in, and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of town next week, so the update may be late. If I can, I'll post next monday as normal, but chances are good I won't be able to upload it on my phone. If that's the case, don't worry! Both chapters will come out in two weeks c: I can still write this even with zero internet, I just may be unable to post it.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! If you have any requests/criticism/advice, feel free to leave them down below! I have a good idea of where the plot is headed (as in I have resolutions for 3 major plot things and how I'll get there) but I'm lacking in ideas for the little slice-of-life scenes that keep this fic from being too fast paced. Stuff like Grif and Simmons arguing, or Junior and Tucker bonding is hard for me to come up with, so if you have a request for a scene I'll probably write it c:
> 
> Also, it would be really super helpful right now if you shared any predictions/guesses you have about where the characters/plot/backstory is going. I'm trying to balance foreshadowing with subtlety, and I have an amount of knowledge in mind for what you guys are supposed to know, but I'm not sure if I've been too subtle or too obvious.
> 
> If you don't want to/can't leave a comment, that's fine! It's okay if you don't I just love reading the comments because I'm needy and love positive reinforcement c':

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really hope that you enjoyed and that none of the characters were too OOC. If it's a bit slow for you right now, sorry! Plot is happening, just not super obviously. I plan on keeping the tags updated with each new chapter, so don't read the tags when I update until you've read the most recent chapter or you might get spoilers. This fic will probably run pretty long, and I'm hoping to do weekly updates (which may or may not actually happen lol). Trigger warnings for any chapters that they apply to will be in the author's notes at the beginning of each chapter c:
> 
> Feel free to mention any errors or offer constructive criticsm if you see anything! I'm not really the best writer but I'm trying to get better ahahah


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